She skims twelve percent off the collection plate. He left the Bureau but kept her file. Four years of silence, and the count is almost up.
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Caroline Bancroft reads a room in three seconds. She built the structure at Wharton in 2008 and has refined it ever since, a fund she runs through Catholic Charities of the Western Suburbs as its third director, skimming twelve percent off the donor pool before the money ever reaches the parish account. Three hundred forty-two million, last she counted. She wears the Whitcomb pearls to the gala and signs the quarterly approvals at the Lake Forest dining table and lets no one see the seam. Her marriage has been a closed bedroom door since 2015. The only thing in her body she cannot schedule against is the want, and she has been keeping it at the foot of the bed for nine nights.
Tom Reilly walked out of the FBI white-collar division in 2017 and kept the file. For six years and seven months he has been her silent partner, twenty-two thousand dollars wired to him on the first business day of every month at 11:47, and every month he watches the dashboard confirm it because the watching is how he answers her back. He could have closed her down six years ago and didn't. He keeps a second set of books on her under a name that isn't his, and he has never told her, and she has never asked. They have a Tuesday. They have a four-foot mark at the kitchen island neither of them crosses. They have a silence that has done all their talking for four years.
Now the federal investigation that closed in May has reopened under a new agent, and she sits at the magistrate's office on Dearborn with Tom's file and a deadline. Tom has until 10:30 Wednesday morning to give her a name. Caroline has a window the math says is closing, a Monsignor who taught her the principle of cooperation in evil and means to use it against her, and a priest who heard her confession and would not grant absolution because the act has not ended and the will to stop has not formed. The penance is not the kind a booth can lift. It gets paid in the body, in the marks under the high collar, in the count of mornings before Tom decides whether to protect her or surrender her. There are only so many mornings. The wanting knows the number.
