Page 103 of Man of the Year

Pat’s Birthday. Pat, Cara, Jenny, Jim, Phil, Rich.

I count the people—yep, the man who’s a spitting copy of Rosenberg next to Rich is named Phil, just like Rich said.

So Cara knew him and Rich, worked with them. Last week at the club, she knew that Rosenberg was an impostor. So did Rich. Did they plan on blackmailing Rosenberg together, or did they want the insider information for the crypto exchange?

“He is my jackpot.”

Rosenberg was neither a jackpot nor the Man of the Year. He was a pawn, and I’m glad Cara survived him and Nick.

On second thought, I’m lucky that I did, too.

I pack a bag to take to the hospital. I still don’t know what Cara’s condition is. If she has partial amnesia, I hope she forgets ever running into Rosenberg, aka Phil, and Nick.

If her brain has more damage than that, we will get through that too. We will. We can. We are small-town girls in a big world, and we’ve learned to crawl through the mud. Because where we come from, the roads are narrow, mud is everywhere, and we learned to appreciate new opportunities. We also learned to deal with Rosenbergs and Nicks. Nick being gone is not exactly revenge, but it’s closure.

Closure is not always justice.

Sometimes, closure is knowing that other people won’t get hurt in the future, and that’s a big thing.

EPILOGUE

NATALIE

A YEAR LATER

SANTORINI ISLAND, GREECE

“Take your time!” Cara yells from the private spa room, which is larger than our Jersey City apartment.

That’s the thing you find out while staying at an island resort—not every room that has a toilet and a shower is called a bathroom. The one in our villa has a bathtub, a steam shower, and a mini salt room, and is called “a private spa room.”

Currently, Cara is lying in a stone bathtub filled with warm water and bubbles. An arched window overlooks the caldera. Santorini Island is gorgeous, and Cara says that we should move here. Despite my online freelance jobs that give me freedom to work from anywhere, I don’t think we can afford to live in Greece yet, though it’s definitely on my bucket list.

“I’m getting pastries and coming right back!” I shout back.

I lock the door and take the narrow stone path between the whitewashed buildings to the local bakery.

It’s early morning, and the street is deserted. Ocean waves crash against the shore in the distance. Salty breeze, amazing local food—the several days we’ve spent on the island so far have been nothing short of amazing.

While I don’t talk to Cara about what happened a year ago, it’s always on my mind. I hate lying. Technically, Iamgoing to the bakery for fresh pastries. But I’m more curious about the latestTimemagazine article about IxResearch. So when I get to the bakery, I briefly chat with Christina, the owner, all the while eyeing theTimemagazine lying on the side of the counter and eventually pick it up.

A familiar face stares back at me from the cover.

Well, hello.

The headshot is split in half. Half of it is red-haired Rosenberg, with a cocked brow, confident and cold, with a green eye. The other half is Phil Crain with outgrown blond hair, stubbled chin, saggy eyelid, and blue eye.

ONCE MAN OF THE YEAR.

NOW AN EX-CONVICT.

WHAT DOES THE FUTURE HOLD FOR

ONE OF THE BIGGEST FRAUDS

OF THE CENTURY?

Phil Crain is fresh out of prison. He got off easy. Apparently, he is a victim in this story. It’s a universal truth that assholes live forever.

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