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Vivienne Carter was not drunk. She wanted to be clear about that, later, when the police asked questions. She was not drunk, she was not having a breakdown, and she was absolutely not—as Jack would suggest with that infuriating half-smile of his—"going through a thing."

She was simply standing at her twenty-five-year college reunion, holding a glass of champagne that had been topped off so many times she'd lost count, listening to Brenda Holloway describe prison visiting hours with the serene contentment of a woman discussing a spa retreat.

"Tuesdays and Saturdays," Brenda said, swirling her vodka tonic. "I go on Tuesdays. We play Scrabble. He's gotten very good at Scrabble—apparently there's nothing else to do."

"Brenda." Vivienne set down her champagne with the deliberate care of a woman trying to signal that this conversation had taken a turn she had not anticipated. "Your husband is in federal prison."

"Minimum security."

"That's still prison."