It's a Crime by Jacqueline Carey

kept freaking out on me,” said Pat. “One tried to kill herself, and another left school and became a topless dancer.”
    “What?”
said Frank.
    “It wasn’t my suggestion,” said Pat.
    There was a silence.
    “Ruby seems to have a lot of assemblies this year,” said Pat.
    “Really,” said Rose, with a long look at Ruby.
    “Yup,” said Ruby.
    “I’m really going to miss you guys,” said Frank, putting his head in his hands.
    “I’ve got to tell you,” said Pat. “I’ve been reading this suspense novel, and you wouldn’t believe what happens. It’s about this guy who manipulates the stock market out of revenge but ends up making a lot of money for himself. And he’s a good guy. He’s not a good bad guy among bad bad guys, who are all tricking each other. He’s a
plain old
good guy, up against a
plain old
bad guy.” She spoke faster and faster, and details started to fly: newspaper leaks, a change of clothes, a masked courier. “Don’t you see!” she cried, her voice soaring. “This guy is a hero! You did something not so different, and they’re sending you to prison for it!”
    “People don’t mind if the fix is in—as long as they’re in on it,” said Frank gloomily.
    “It’s not like you really hurt anyone,” said Pat.
    Ruby was staring at them with her silent and unblinking button eyes.
    “You’re going to be fine financially,” said Frank. “Unless we’re socked with a big civil judgment. Just don’t go wild when I’m gone.”
    “I have to have my cellphone,” said Ruby in a self-righteous, aggrieved tone.
    “That’s fine, just no castles in Spain.” He popped the cork on another bottle of Montrachet. “Do you know that one out of every eleven American men will be imprisoned at some point in their lives? It’s unbelievable. It’s emasculating. What kind of society puts that many of its men in jail? The government may end up indicting everyone in the telecommunications industry. We may not have made the best business decisions at LinkAge, but we didn’t do anything that unusual. I’m wondering how the American people will communicate once we’re all in prison. The
post office
?” He laughed.
    “I have to get back,” said Rose, standing up.
    “Don’t you want some dessert?” asked Pat.
    “No.”
    “No dessert?” said Frank.
    Rose was adamant. “I’ve got a lab due tomorrow,” she said, as if nothing they did could compare. On her way out, she said to Ruby, “Watch yourself, kid.”
    “I will,” Ruby replied with uncharacteristic anxiety, leaning forward to stress her seriousness. Then she ran upstairs, the sound as quick and regular as the shuffling of cards.
    When they were alone, Frank said to Pat, “I have to talk to you.”
    She tried to think of excuses for the girls. “About what?” she said, starting to clear the table.
    “Whatever you do,” said Frank, grabbing her arm, “don’t sleep with that detective writer when I’m gone.”

CHAPTER
7
    P at was on guard against the obvious problems that could result from not having another adult around to talk to or have sex with. Because Frank had traveled frequently on business, consulting with his Swat Team, she was used to having dinners with a girl who said “I hate you” so often that you could almost believe it was true. Nor did Pat miss Frank when it was time to change a lightbulb out of her reach or grapple with a heavy bare-root oak leaf hydrangea; she had never gone to him for help with these things. She had always made most of the household decisions simply because he wasn’t interested. And sleeping alone in a king-size bed was really no problem. You could always lie sideways. Plus there were mysteries piled up around her now—including Lemuel Samuel’s.
    Still, she detected subtle quandaries. It was hard to keep the house as it used to be. Frank had a few quirky but unyielding tastes—a stainless-steel kitchen, peeled shrimp at every cocktail party, a remote control for each