Husbands and wives are linked in ways that a stranger cannot know any more than I understand Wall Street.
That’s my excuse, but I should have realized that something was wrong when I saw him on that cot, shivering with cold and despair. I made an exception for him and it was the worst mistake of my life, or so I hope it will remain. There were clues all around every day I’d worked in the Harold L. and Nora Shapiro Pavilion above FDR Drive. The Shapiros had paid for everything: York East, Twelve South, the oil painting screwed to the ER wall.
When I was useful, they bought me, too.
Вы читаете A Fatal Debt
