KATRINA

Katrina

FOUR DAYS BEFORE

Advantage Consulting's waiting room was lovely. In fact, the entire building was stunning, a converted nineteenth-century limestone mansion on East Eighty-sixth, right off the park. The upper edge of the Metropolitan Museum was barely visible through the huge windows. There were two bold abstracts on the wall opposite the couch, nearby an artful black-and-white photo—dark skies over the western plains, a single horse off center in the distance. Brian Carmichael had been raised in rural Montana, or so his bio claimed, before finding his way to the Ivy League. This cast him perfectly in the role of an earthy, wholesome, erudite man who understood how to navigate success without losing sight of his moral compass. Surely the wealthy parents who hired him felt much less terrible by association. Actually, they probably didn't feel terrible at all.

Looking around the room, it was again hard to fathom that Brian Carmichael would spend years establishing a well-run, moneymaking machine only to risk it all by blackmailing someone like Doug, then staging an accident when he didn't immediately pay up. But even those adept at criminal operations made mistakes. That's how they got caught.

But even if it was a dead end, at least meeting with Carmichael was a distraction from thinking about whether the blissed-out look on Cleo's face had had to do with Kyle.

I'd known the second I laid eyes on Kyle that he would be a real problem. The way he'd barely nodded at Aidan and me before sauntering out of Cleo's room seconds after we arrived. I'd been glaring at him so hard, I was surprised he didn't combust. And Cleo had been on me like a hawk.

"Mom, stop," she'd said before I even uttered a word. "I like him. I'm not doing this."

"Doing what? I didn't say anything."

By that point, I was on high alert; Cleo had already made some bad choices in the boy department. She was together in so many aspects of her life, but she had terrible taste in boys. Not Charlie, her one real boyfriend. He'd been very sweet, despite the whole Virgingate debacle. But Lance, Hunter, Aaron? They'd all been jerks who didn't treat Cleo remotely the way she should have been treated. She was a knockout and that was all they saw. They didn't appreciate her brilliance or her sensitivity or her humor. Or how she could be shy sometimes. They didn't really see her at all.

But my feelings about Cleo's earlier boyfriends paled in comparison with my virulent reaction to Kyle and the entitled, obnoxious way he had about him. And I hadn't even suspected he was an actual drug dealer at the time. Hadn't known he would enlist Cleo's help. Couldn't have imagined she'd go along with it. And so I'd kept my mouth shut about him even when Cleo's grades dropped. But when Aidan said that Cleo had told him about Kyle being a dealer, I'd jumped into action. It didn't take much digging to figure out it was way more than a little dealing. Kyle was the biggest dealer at NYU, pills mostly—Adderall, Xanax, Oxy.

Cleo had been surprisingly good at covering her own tracks, though. I couldn't confirm that she was actually involved until I got my hands on her unlocked phone at Thanksgiving and quickly scanned her texts. A violation of her privacy, sure. But a justifiable one. By then she and Kyle had been together a few months and it was clear from the texts that she was working for him. There were only carefully worded check-ins and oblique instructions, but it was enough.

I confronted her, even though it meant revealing that I'd been snooping. After railing against me for invading her privacy, Cleo had insisted she didn't use herself. A fact confirmed when, in a rage, she'd taken the drug test I already had on hand. All she'd been doing for Kyle, she'd said, besides being his devoted girlfriend, which might have been the worst part, was dropping off pills and picking up cash.

"It's like a paper route!" Cleo had squeaked, her voice as a little girl popping through her bravado.

She also refused to stop.

And so a couple weeks later I threatened to stop paying her tuition unless she cut off all contact with Kyle and started seeing a therapist. I wasn't proud of making threats, but it wasn't like I'd had a lot of options. Of course, the most questionable call of all was my decision to then pay a surreptitious visit to Kyle myself. But that had worked. Or so I had thought until last night, when I'd seen Cleo emerge from the store on Christopher without the envelope she'd entered with. Sure looked like a drop for Kyle; maybe he had even been the one at the bottom of those steps.

At least I did know she was seeing the therapist. That was one good thing about paying the bills.

The phone on Advantage Consulting's elegant mid-century modern reception desk chirped discreetly and the receptionist answered in a hushed tone. When she hung up, she turned to me and smiled. "Brian will be right out."

I returned her smile tightly, like I was a woman unaccustomed to being kept waiting. Willing to suffer it only for her child. These kinds of details were essential in establishing my credibility as a potential client: the expression of poised irritation, the camel Agnès B sweater, the way I had myself perched on the edge of the couch, like I was not quite convinced of its cleanliness.

"Ms. Thompson?" When I looked up, there, in all his glory, was Brian Carmichael—chiseled features, gray eyes, thick silvery hair. Very confident. He indeed looked like he belonged fly- fishing knee-deep in an icy Montana stream. He strode across the room with an outstretched hand. "It's nice to meet you."

I forced another stiff smile and shook his hand, a bit awkwardly because I didn't get up. But the woman I was pretending to be would make Carmichael lean in. She would wait for an official invitation before she stood.

"I'm sorry again about the delay," he said. "I have this one student, incredibly bright and thoughtful, not to mention an Olympic-caliber swimmer. Great, great kid. But, wow, is he disorganized. He was supposed to have gotten me a draft of his Common App essay two weeks ago. Harvard wants him on the swim team, but there are some basic requirements. Let's face it: Harvard is Harvard no matter how fast you can swim the butterfly." He gave a rueful shake of his head.

"Of course. And you would know, right? I mean, you did go there," I said smoothly, obediently taking the bait—the Harvard alum reminder, the evidence of his personal dedication to his students, his fundamental integrity. It was impressive how much Brian had packed into so few words.

"Let's head back to my office, where we can chat," he said.

As he turned, I set my phone to record and dropped it in my purse. Who knew what Brian Carmichael might admit, or how I might want to use it against him later? It was best to be very prepared, and extremely patient. This was always true. If only I could have exercised that kind of discipline when it came to Cleo.

Carmichael's office was well designed and very expensive—all tufted leather chairs and curated objets d'art. Aggressively devoid of personality, though. He took a seat behind his desk and flipped through the documents in a folder there—presumably the doctored ones I'd supplied. Then he closed the folder.

"So, Sophia isn't happy at Columbia?" he asked.

"No, she's not," I said. "The creative writing department isn't what she'd hoped."

"Columbia has a world-class writing program." Brian raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure that's the problem?"

"Does the real reason she wants to transfer even matter?" I looked down at my lap, sighed—the fragile, upset mother. "Sophia and I don't have the closest relationship, unfortunately, which is why she isn't here," I went on. "So, quite honestly, I can't be sure why she wants to transfer to Amherst. She said it's the writing program, but it could be something else. Regardless, I want to help her find a place where she can be happy." My voice cracked, and I could feel my cheeks flush. That last part, at least, was true.

"You're right," Brian said gently. "The exact reason Sophia wants to transfer doesn't matter, not unless it affects which new school she should head to."

"She wants Amherst," I said. "She's done her own research and she's quite sure."

Brian rubbed his hands together. "Okay, then, let's get down to work, shall we?"

"That would be great," I said.

"We are going to need Sophia's help with this process, though," Brian went on. "You'd be surprised how many parents think they can do this all on their own, without the student's participation."

"Really?" I asked.

"Really," he said with a small laugh. "I had one guy—an actual count from Spain—who wanted me to write everything, all the essays, personal statements. Apparently, his son was too busy selecting a suitable wife. He offered to pay quadruple the ordinary rate." Brian paused, as though leaving time for this to sink in.

"I guess if you're a count, you're used to being able to bribe your way into most things."

"No one is bribing anyone," Carmichael said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Of course not," I said, maintaining eye contact. "I just meant—"

"In an ideal world, every student would be evaluated properly. But the reality is that we live in a world of limited resources. Universities are making their best guess based on a fraction of the relevant data. Every child who goes on to be admitted with our assistance is always fully qualified. What we do is simply ensure a fair outcome."

"Exactly, and that's all we want for Sophia," I said earnestly. "Fairness."

But I could tell from the look on Carmichael's face that his antennae were up. "How did you say you heard about us again?"

Giving him an answer that would claw back my credibility was the only option.

"Doug Sinclair," I said.

His face lit up, no sign of the guilty conscience that might be brought on by, say, masterminding blackmail or murder.

"Are you and Doug close?" he asked.

"Acquaintances through work," I said.

"Of course, well, yes, Ella. Now this makes sense. We were so glad to be able to help her with Amherst." He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. "That was a situation that did require a significant additional investment. But all's well that ends well. Ella is now at Amherst and, as evidenced by his referral, Doug was satisfied with the way the process played out."

A significant additional investment. Had Doug lied to me about making a payoff? I felt stupidly blindsided.

"Yes, and that's why I came to you," I managed, hoping the dismay didn't register on my face. I had been so sure my instincts about Doug were right.

Brian Carmichael smiled as he rose to his feet. My allotted time was up. But he seemed completely at ease now. "Let's take this one step at a time," he offered. "I can put out some feelers at Amherst, see how many transfer spots they expect." He smiled at me. "The most important thing is that Sophia is happy. That's all any of us want for our kids, right—that they stay happy and safe?"