David Banks was a quiet man; his weapon of power was silence, and buried beneath it was a family line of money so deep, it was hard for anyone to follow. He preferred a low profile as one of the wealthiest men in Washington. When you googled his name, the only article that came up was an obscure PDF—something about the wiring of funds to some bank in order to pay Ariana Grande for a surprise appearance at one of Audrey’s birthday parties—and it was on page four or five of the search. He wore Brioni suits and collected vintage Ferraris. Rumor was that he’d had a garage built on the property of his château in the South of France to hold all sixty of them. Mr. Banks’s family money originally came from American oil. His grandfather had got in early with the Bolger Brothers back in Texas in the mid-twentieth century, then expanded into several industries such as plastic ware, textiles, and cement: things no human ever thinks about. So that’s why Mr. Banks bought Mrs. Banks a line of linens—the brand that Jackie O and Princess Margaret used for their master bedrooms, children’s rooms, and guest rooms—something a little more glamorous than Tupperware. She wanted to do something with her time other than organize benefits and luncheons at the Sulgrave Club and the Cosmos Club for the arts. She wanted it to be glamorous and provide social status beyond Washington.
Genevieve Banks was the epitome of chic. She never left the house without stockings or her signature Yves Saint Laurent hot-pink lipstick with Chanel beige lip gloss slathered on top. She was no dummy. A buyer for Lord & Taylor in her early twenties, she’d met Mr. Banks when he was still a young lawyer. “I just knew he would make a lot of money on his own,” she would say to her girlfriends, as if his family money weren’t the reason she’d decided to marry him. But there would always be money—and she deserved some sort of prize for it. Mrs. Banks was a girl of good breeding: educated, Ivy League parents (though her parents didn’t come from money, they were intellectuals, upper middle class). She was “good enough” to marry up, but she never felt good enough. Not many people knew this, but she was often a jealous person, competitive with her friends; it made most wonder if she even had any real ones. She was the kind of woman who knew how to find a man and, more important, how to keep him. When she and Mr. Banks had sex, she often sounded like she was tasting apple pie for the first time: “Mmm, mmmm, mmmmm!” She embodied a whole new vision of “fake it till you make it.”
When Mrs. Banks became more notable in the Washingtonian social circle, hosting book parties and election parties and fundraisers for nonprofits like Teach for America, then moving up to hosting events at the French and British Embassies, she became known not just in Washington but through the social ranks of New York. This made Mr. Banks nervous because he couldn’t control her or keep his family contained anymore, which meant he would have a harder time protecting them: Washington Life, New York Social Diary, the Washington Post Style Section, The Glam Pad blog, Facebook, Instagram!
And Audrey, poor thing, was Little Miss Popular, because it was becoming easier and easier to pay for friends, creating a curated virtual path into the life of a rich kid whom everyone could envy and want something from (Instagram stories on private jets: prayer hands, heart emoji!). Which, of course, posed an even greater risk of breaching the privacy Mr. Banks tried so hard to protect—something the old families of Washington coveted. A “quiet” reputation was desired among the elite of the elite. Those whose old money and manner lurk through the cobblestone streets of Georgetown, Kalorama, and Capitol Hill; those whose names can only be found in the exclusive Green Book—a discriminative, secret diary founded by the niece of Edith Roosevelt’s social secretary—the names of Very Important People. Everyone inside it is wealthy, everyone inside it is powerful, and everyone has a reputation to protect. The pecking order at the top, the aristocratic bloodlines woven into the fabric of Washington, generation after generation after generation, only socialize within their inner circle, which is impenetrable—turning a blind eye to those who come and go on the political merry-go-round, yet rooted within the very foundation America was built upon.
But what they have failed to understand is that the world is changing. It wasn’t until the Banks family was murdered that everything about their legacy was called into question.
They’re called the Cave Dwellers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A running lawn mower vibrates; its bent blade chops through wet grass, drowning the sounds of ice cubes knocking around in Betsy’s glass of orange juice. She takes a sip at the hand-painted desk recently shipped from Paris, opens her laptop. At the top of her home screen are trickling red letters: Breaking News: Wealthy Family Found Dead in DC Mansion. Surprised and curious, she clicks on the link. Fox 5:
Two adults and one child were found dead in a mansion, which caught fire on the 500 block of Wildwood Drive, home to some of DC’s most elite families near the Washington National Cathedral. Additionally, one woman was initially found still breathing but later died in transit to the hospital. Officials say the fire, reported in the early hours of Friday morning, is being
