She drives Cash and Winnie to the airport in Cedar Rapids. From Cedar Rapids, they will fly to Chicago, and from Chicago to St. Thomas. Irene is tempted to tell Cash that she received her own job offer on St. John but he’s so excited about getting back down there that Irene decides not to steal his thunder or distract from his anticipation.

Besides, she isn’t at all sure Huck was serious.

Still, it was nice to hear his voice.

Cash’s departure turns out to be the impetus Irene needs to get things done. On the way home from Cedar Rapids, she calls Ed Sorley.

“Oh, Irene,” he says. “You must have read my mind. I just dug up a photocopy of the check that Russ gave me when we closed on the Church Street house. Turns out, it was a cashier’s check drawn on a bank called SGMT in the Cayman Islands.”

“The Cayman Islands?” Irene says. “Not the Virgin Islands?”

“The Cayman Islands,” Ed says. “I double-checked that myself.”

“But it cleared, right?” Irene says. “We did actually pay for the house?”

“Yes, yes,” Ed says. “I’ll try to see if maybe this SGMT has a phone number or a website, but even if it does, it might be difficult to track down. It’s a cashier’s check, which is almost like Russ showed up at the bank with six hundred grand in cash…but that’s obviously impossible.”

Is it, though? Irene wonders.

“He might have an account at this bank,” Ed says. “I’ll try to figure it out.”

“Thank you, Ed,” Irene says.

She hangs up and calls Paulette Vickers. Paulette is out of the office—is Paulette ever in the office? Irene wonders—and so Irene leaves a voicemail.

“Paulette, it’s Irene Steele,” she says. “I need a copy of Russ’s death certificate. I can’t do anything without it. My attorney said that until it’s issued, Russ is technically still alive.” Irene gives a weak laugh and flashes back to her dream about the chickens. “So if you would please send me a certified copy, I would greatly appreciate it. That’s apparently what I need. You have my address and if there’s a fee, I’m happy to send a check, or maybe you can take it out of your operating account for the villa.” Irene pauses. “Thank you, Paulette. If this is an issue, please call me back.”

Irene hangs up and thinks, Please don’t call me back. Just send the death certificate. Paulette’s husband, Douglas Vickers, was the one who identified Russ’s body and delivered his ashes to Irene. He’s her only hope of getting this documentation.

She feels a small sense of accomplishment—really small, because she has learned nothing except that Russ apparently had a relationship with a bank in the Cayman Islands. Irene doesn’t have the foggiest idea where the Cayman Islands are. If she were to visit, would she find that Russ also has a mistress and child there? She laughs at the absurdity of the thought—and yet, it’s not out of the question!

The road home from the airport brings Irene perilously close to the offices of the magazine Heartland Home and Style, her place of employment. Irene hasn’t been to work in three weeks. She has two voicemails from Mavis Key on her cell phone; in the second of these, Mavis announced that she “did a little detective work” and learned that Milly had passed away—which, Mavis assumed, was the reason for Irene’s “extended absence.” Mavis offered her condolences, then asked if Irene would prefer the magazine to send flowers or donate to a particular cause.

Irene had ignored the message. She didn’t want to think about work.

But she can’t ignore it forever. Impulsively, Irene turns into the parking lot of the magazine and pulls into her spot. Already the signage has been changed to read EXECUTIVE EDITOR. She cuts the engine and checks her appearance in the rearview. Her hair is braided, her bangs long but not ratty. She’s not wearing any makeup but she still has a little bit of color on her nose and across her cheeks from the sun in St. John.

In she goes.

The first person she sees is the magazine’s receptionist, Jayne. Jayne decorates the reception desk herself using the magazine’s small slush fund; she follows the lead of all the major retailers and really gets a jump on things. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are behind them, Jayne has her area decked out for Valentine’s Day. There’s an arrangement of red and white carnations on the desk and, next to that, an enormous bowl of candy hearts.

“Irene!” Jayne shrieks. She leaps out of her chair and comes running to give Irene a maternal embrace; Jayne has five children, seventeen grandchildren, a pillowy bosom, and soft downy cheeks.

Irene allows herself to be swallowed up in Jayne’s arms and soon the rest of the staff—bored or easily distracted, even though they should be hard at work on the April issue—come trooping out, all filled with joy (or maybe just relief) at Irene’s unexpected return.

Happy New Year, we’ve missed you, is everything okay, we’ve been so worried, it’s not like you to take unscheduled time off, we knew something must be wrong, we heard about your promotion, and then Mavis gave us the news about Milly. God bless you, Irene, she was so lucky to have a daughter-in-law like you.

Bets, from advertising, says, “How’s Russ handling it?”

At this, Irene separates herself by an arm’s length. She can’t lie, but neither can she tell them the truth.

She says, “Is Mavis in her office? I really need to talk with her.”

Yes, yes, Mavis is in her office. Jayne takes it upon herself to personally escort Irene up the half-flight of stairs to Mavis’s office, which happens to be right next door to Irene’s own office, the door of which is shut tight.

Jayne raps on Mavis’s door, then swings it open and announces, “Irene is here!” As though Irene is the First Lady of Iowa.

Irene steps in. Mavis is on the phone. Jayne whispers, “Mavis is always on the phone.” As if this is Irene’s first time in the office, her first time meeting Mavis. “She shouldn’t be long. I’ll give you two your privacy.” And she closes the door.

Mavis is wearing a silk pantsuit in what must be considered winter white. She’s not wearing a blouse under the blazer, though Irene spies a peek of lacy camisole. In an office where most of the employees are women and most of those women wear embroidered sweaters or Eileen Fisher schmattas, Mavis is a curiosity indeed.

Mavis raises a finger (One minute!), then lowers a palm (Please sit!). She has decorated her office in eggshell suede and black leather, an aesthetic previously frowned upon as “modern” and “urban” by the executives at Heartland Home and Style. Irene helps herself to one of the Italian sparkling waters in Mavis’s glass-fronted minifridge. Why not enjoy the pretensions that are on offer?

She decides to remain standing.

Mavis says, “Thanks for your help with this, Bernie. I’ll circle back next week.” She hangs up. “Irene?”

“Mavis,” Irene says. She turns back to make sure that the office door is closed and that Jayne isn’t stationed outside with her ear to the glass. “I need to talk to you. Can I trust you to keep what we say confidential?”

The question is rhetorical. Mavis doesn’t trade on gossip like the other people in the office because Mavis has invested only her head here, not her heart. She was hired to be a problem-solver and a moneymaker. She’s an ice queen, which, under the present circumstances, is a tremendous asset.

Irene lets it all out as concisely as possible: Russ has been killed in a helicopter crash in the Virgin Islands; Irene’s trip down to St. John with the boys revealed evidence of a second life—an expensive villa, a mistress (also dead), a twelve-year-old daughter. Russ’s body was identified and cremated before Irene arrived. Russ’s boss, Todd Croft, the apparent puppet master of this whole grotesque theater, can’t be reached, and the business’s website is down.

“I’m…I’m speechless,” Mavis says. “Your husband is dead? He had a secret life?”

Irene blinks.

“I’m sure you don’t want to go into the gritty details. Who can blame you. But…wow. I thought maybe you were angry about your new role here.”

“Oh, I was,” Irene says. “But then all this happened and…” She studies the bottle of fancy water in her hands because it gives her something to do other than cry.

“Irene,” Mavis says. “What can I do to help?”

“I’m giving you my notice,” Irene says. “I can’t come back to work. I thought maybe, with time…but no.” Irene sighs. “I’m not even sure I’ll stay in Iowa City.”

“What?” Mavis says. “What about your house?”

Irene shrugs. Three weeks ago, leaving behind the house would have been unthinkable. That house took six years of her life to complete; it’s a work of art. Now, of course, Irene sees how blindly devoted she was to the project, how she sweated over the details and completely ignored her marriage. It’s entirely possible that Irene had been standing at her workspace in the kitchen poring over four choices of wallpaper for the third upstairs bath and Russ had come to her and said, Honey, I have a lover in the Virgin Islands and I’ve fathered a daughter, and Irene had said, That’s great, honey.

What Russ did was wrong. But Irene is not blameless.

“You know, I’ve been to St. John,” Mavis says. “I stayed at the Westin with my parents. It’s beautiful.”

“I’d like you to pass my resignation on to Joseph,” Irene says. “I’ll call him myself eventually, but right now…”

Mavis waves a hand. “I got it. Consider it handled.”

“And would you smooth things over with the rest of the staff?”

“I certainly will,” Mavis says. “They’ll all miss you, of course. And they’ll assume it’s my fault you’re leaving. The good news is I don’t think they can hate me any more than they already do.”

“They’re midwesterners,” Irene says. “A bit resistant to change.”

“You think?” Mavis says. “I tried to win them over with team building—lunches at Formosa, happy hour at the Clinton Street Social Club—but I’m pretty sure they talk about me behind my back the second I pick up the check.”

“At least they see you,” Irene says.

Mavis cocks her head. She’s not pretty, exactly, but she’s young, strong, and vibrant. She has presence. But someday, Mavis Key, too, will find herself leaving less of an impression. She’ll be overlooked, shuffled aside, forgotten.

Or maybe Irene is just bitter. She tries to regain the feeling she had as she stood on the bow of Huck’s boat, but it’s gone. She wants to go back down to the islands, she realizes then, if only so she can feel seen again.

“I’ll come back for my things another time,” Irene says. “On a Saturday. Or after hours.”

Mavis says, “Whatever you need, Irene. Please ask me.” She opens her arms and Irene allows herself to be hugged. “I hope you figure this out.”

“Me too,” Irene says.

Back at home, Irene sits at the kitchen table with her list in front of her. Death certificates—being pursued. Resignation—tendered.

Obituary. Irene flips to the next page of her notebook and writes, Russell Steele died Tuesday, January 1. He is survived by his wife of thirty-five years, Irene Hagen Steele, and his sons, Baker and Cashman Steele.

Is that all? Irene can’t mention his job at Ascension. She could maybe say that he worked for the Corn Refiners Association for two decades. She could mention Rotary Club and his years of service to the Iowa City school board.

She drops her pen, picks up her phone. She sends a text to her best friend, Dr. Lydia Christensen.

Lydia, the first text says.

Irene feels like she’s falling backward in one of those Outward Bound games where you’re supposed to trust your comrades to catch you.

Russ is dead. He died on New Year’s Day but I didn’t find out until I got home from our dinner. The circumstances were so extraordinary and, honestly, so baffling that I didn’t know how to tell you or anyone else. I’ll call you later, I promise.

Irene presses Send.

Okay, she thinks. It’s officially out in the world. Unlike Mavis, Lydia is not a vault.

A little while later, the doorbell rings. The doorbell is an antique, salvaged from a convent in Vicenza, Italy, and it makes quite a formal sound, somewhere between a gong and cathedral bells. Irene hurries down the hallway, hoping and praying it’s FedEx with the death certificates but knowing that, unless Paulette read Irene’s mind before she left the voicemail, that’s logistically impossible. It might be Lydia, though Lydia normally flings open the door and walks right in. Maybe Lydia called the Dunns and the Kinseys and this is the start of the onslaught. Bobbi Kinsey will have pulled a casserole from her freezer or stopped by the Hy-Vee for a deli tray.

Irene pauses before opening the door and takes a sustaining breath. She’ll tell people the truth—helicopter crash, Virgin Islands, work, but leave out the villa, the mistress, and Maia.

Strong, beautiful Maia.

Irene opens the door. It’s not Lydia, and it’s not Bobbi. It’s four men in dark suits, trench coats, and impractical shoes for the weather. The man in front—African-American, tall and broad, with a grim facial expression—flashes a badge.

“Irene Steele?” he says.

Irene is so stunned, she can’t speak. Is she being arrested?

“Are you Irene Steele?” the man says. “Is this the Steele residence?” He glances above the door frame, then down toward the corner of Linn. “Thirty Church Street?”

Irene nods. “Yes, it is. I am.”

“Agent Kenneth Beckett, FBI, white-collar crime division. We have a search warrant for this address. If you’ll kindly step aside.”

White-collar crime. Irene steps aside.

Three of the agents start searching the house. Irene’s instinct is to follow them—not to hide anything but to make sure they’re careful with her things. However, Agent Beckett wants to talk to Irene in private. She leads him to the amethyst parlor. It’s chilly and she offers to lay a fire.

“Just please sit down, Mrs. Steele,” Agent Beckett says. He’s stern and serious, like an FBI agent on television. Irene notices a black and gold knit cap sticking out of his briefcase.

“Iowa grad?” she asks. “I’m the class of ’84.”

“Class of ’91,” Beckett says. For a second, his eyes smile. “Go Hawks.”

“They aren’t going to break anything, are they?” Irene asks. “This house…well, it took me six years to renovate and the antiques are real. There’s a mural in the dining room; the moldings and trim have all been restored to period. The carpets…” She stares down at Beckett’s wet and icy wingtips on the Queen Victoria jewel-box carpet. “They’ll be careful, right? Respectful?”

Quick nod. “We’re professionals.”

“Of course.”

“Your husband was Russell Steele?” Beckett says. “Died January first in a helicopter crash off the coast of Virgin Gorda?”

“Yes.”

“And what did your husband do for a living, Mrs. Steele?”

Irene briefly wonders if she needs a lawyer present. She tries to imagine Ed Sorley in his sweater-vest dealing with these gentlemen. The idea is nearly laughable.

The fact is, Irene has done nothing wrong. Irene has nothing to hide.

“He worked for a hedge fund called Ascension,” Irene says.

“What was his position there?”

“My understanding was that he was in customer relations.”

Beckett looks up. “Customer relations.”

“Not like he answered the phone and took complaints,” Irene says. “He wined and dined the clients, played golf, a lot of golf, made them comfortable. Russ was a very…nice guy. Nonthreatening, friendly, engaging. He told a lot of corny jokes, asked to see pictures of your kids, remembered their names.” Irene had been jealous, at times, of how good with people Russ was, how generous with his attention. All of their friends and acquaintances liked Russ better than her. And that was fine, Irene understood; they had their roles. Irene let Russ do the talking because he liked it and she didn’t. She enjoyed quieter things—reading novels, cooking, nurturing one-on-one friendships, achieving goals in a timely and organized fashion, whether it was renovating a room in this house or putting an issue of the magazine to bed. She enjoyed fishing, the peace of being out on the water with a single simple mission.

Why is she thinking about fishing?

Well, she knows why.

“And where is this company, Ascension, based?” Beckett asks.

“Miami?” Irene says. “I’m not sure, though. Russ did a lot of traveling for work. He told me he was in Florida, Texas…”

“Told you?” Beckett says.

“Yes,” Irene says. “But I now have reason to believe he spent most of his time in the Virgin Islands. In St. John.”

Beckett scratches down a note.

“You know my husband owns property in St. John.”

“Yes,” Beckett says. “Federal agents are searching that house now.”

“Oh, dear,” Irene says.

Beckett looks up. “What?”

“I put my son Cash on a plane to St. Thomas this morning,” Irene says. “He’ll arrive at the house in St. John sometime tonight.”

Beckett nods. “They should be finished with the search by then.”

“But if they’re not?”

“They’ll let him know and he can make other arrangements.”

Huck, Irene thinks. Maybe he can stay with Huck for a night or two. Which is a crazy thought. Huck isn’t family; he’s merely a sort of friend.

“I guess I’m confused about what you’re after. Is this part of the investigation about the helicopter?”

“Possibly related,” Beckett says. “Do you know a man named Todd Croft?”

“Russ’s boss,” Irene says. “I met him once, December 2005, in the lobby of the Drake Hotel in Chicago. That was right before he offered Russ the job at Ascension. They knew each other at Northwestern. Or at least, that’s what Russ said.”

“Do you have contact information for Mr. Croft?” Beckett asks.