Last I heard he was living in a rented one-bedroom on the far edge of the city and working an entry-level sales job, most of the paycheck going to court-ordered restitution.

And Lorraine, who had sat at my kitchen island scrolling Paris hotels while hot tea ran down my face, had given up the country club and the tours and moved into a modest retirement home, her social standing gone along with the money that had rented it.

I take no particular joy in either of those facts.

I want to be honest about that, because the version of this story where I do would be more satisfying and less true.

I didn’t want them destroyed.