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his arm. “Is this some kind of a joke to you? Is that what this is—funny?”
    Karolina could feel her mouth open in shock. “Funny?” she sputtered. “Of course not. It was horrible, every minute of it. And where have you been? You send Trip? You know I—”
    â€œAll I know is what I heard from the Bethesda Police Department, Karolina. According to Chief Cunningham, you were detained during a routine sobriety checkpoint after failing a roadside test.”
    His use of her full name, Karolina, instead of Lina, hit home.
    â€œGraham, I know what they said , but I also know that—”
    He slammed his palm against the countertop. “How could you do that? How could you possibly be that stupid?” His face and neck were a mottled red. “And with my son in the car, no less!”
    â€œ Your son?”Karolina asked. “You meant to say our son. He may be my stepson, but you know I’ve never called him or thought of him as anything less than my own.”
    Graham tossed his full mug in the sink and held a finger inches from her face. His eyes were slits. “You need to wake Harry up right now and get him home safely. Can you manage that? Obviously, by Uber, since you’re not driving anywhere. Those leeches”—he motioned toward the manicured Bethesda street out front—“will find you. I hope it goes without saying that you are not to speak to a single one of them. Not a word. Don’t even make eye contact. Do you understand me?”
    Karolina moved closer to him, hoping to see him soften. “Why are you acting like this? You know I didn’t drive drunk. You know how private I am. You know I would never, ever do anything to put Harry—or anyone else’s children—at risk.” Karolina sounded desperate, pleading, but she couldn’t help it. It was one thing for her husband not to pick her up from jail, but it was another for him to be so livid over a crime she obviously didn’t commit.
    He had a brand-new hardness in his eyes. “I’ll be home tonight. Remember—talk to no one.” And with that, he left the kitchen.

4
Some of My Best Friends Are Jewish
Emily
    W hen the elevator doors opened directly into an apartment with floor-to-ceiling views of the Freedom Tower and both the East and Hudson rivers, Emily tried to arrange her expression into one of nonchalance. She’d been in some impressive homes in her time. The Kardashian spread in Hollywood wasn’t too slouchy. George and Amal’s Lake Como spread didn’t suck. And no one could say that Miranda Priestly’s Fifth Avenue townhouse wasn’t spectacular. But there was something about this $12 million fifty-eighth-floor-penthouse glass magnificence that took her breath away. Since there weren’t many skyscrapers in Tribeca, it felt like they were floating alone in the clouds. There was so much natural light she had to squint, and the starkly modern furnishings and complete openness of the enormous space gave it an otherworldly feel.
    â€œThank you so much for coming,” Helene said, pushing her hair back. For as long as Emily could remember, Helene had worn her hair in the most spectacular Afro—wild, massive, and fabulous—but today it was tamed into a trillion tight, shiny ringlets that framed her entire face.
    â€œOf course,” Emily said, setting her overstuffed Goyard tote down on the entryway bench. She’d received six panicked texts from her assistant, Kyle, on the way from the airport. Apparently Helene was having a meltdown. “Is he here?”
    Helene nodded, ringlets shaking. “His trainer is with him. They should be done in a couple minutes. Can I get you anything? Some coffee? A stiff drink? I could sure use one.”
    â€œHow about both together? I won’t say no to that.”
    Emily followed her into the blindingly white lacquered kitchen where a uniformed Hispanic woman stood in