Weston’s reply came in all capitals. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HAVE A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS, WHERE ARE YOU.” I set the phone down and let it buzz. Three miles from a lodge he expected me to fund, in a motel he had booked to keep me out of the photographs, my son was realizing I would not be arriving to hand over the card. But he did not yet know the half of it. He did not know I had already sat across from Nathaniel Cross. He did not know the account was frozen.

The real storm broke at three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, exactly when the calls started. The resort had run the card to settle the balance and the incidentals Bethany intended me to cover. It declined. Then it declined again. Eleven people stood in a six-bedroom lodge that was, as of that morning, no longer being paid for by me. My phone lit up with Weston’s name, then Bethany’s, then a number I did not recognize. I finally answered.