I watched the news from a quiet hotel suite downtown, holding Maisie against my shoulder.

The television screen showed the glass doors of Nolan’s office building.

Workers were loading cardboard boxes into the back of a white van.

Computers, design files, and office chairs were sold off to satisfy the creditors.

The company Nolan had built on lies was gone in a matter of days.

Marjorie’s ruin came next, swift and public.

Her historic townhouse in Society Hill was seized to cover her joint liabilities and legal debts.

I drove past the property on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

The autumn leaves were wet and stuck to the brick pavement.

Two men in heavy jackets were carrying her antique mahogany sideboards down the front steps.

Marjorie stood under a black umbrella, her face pale and drawn.

She looked smaller than I had ever seen her.

When she saw my car pause at the corner, she turned her head away.

The pride she had used as a weapon was entirely gone.

Sloane Barrett chose survival over loyalty.

She walked into the federal prosecutor’s office with three external hard drives.