8

The dinner party was well into wind-down mode when Esther reentered the house. She stood on the periphery where she could observe and remain unnoticed. Esther saw how they comforted Lacy, shared her pain. She followed them across the foyer and out the front door. All Esther’s familiar reasons for staying silent clamored for her attention. But the arguments no longer worked.

They gathered on the home’s curved front portico, its five steps descending to a path of the same fired brick. The faint whiff of new magnolia blossoms hinted at an awakening season.

Esther gripped her arms around her middle, terribly conflicted.

Patricia laid a hand on her shoulder and asked, “Esther, honey, what is it?”

She looked from one face to the next, seeing exactly what she expected to find, what she needed.

Esther whispered, “I’m so scared.”

Patricia declared that whatever it was Esther wanted to share, it wasn’t meant for the front porch. The family and their guests reformed in the living room, this time with Esther at its heart.

Rachel went into the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee. Craig drew a hardwood rocking chair over and invited Esther to make herself comfortable. Lacy seated herself on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, pulled the sleeves of her sweater down so they covered all but the tips of her fingers, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Patricia and Donald sat on the couch. Craig carried in a chair from the dining table and seated himself across from Esther.

After a moment’s silence, Esther confessed, “I have no idea what to say.”

Patricia suggested, “Why don’t you tell us a little something about yourself.”

“Most of the time I feel like a total alien around other people. I suppose I have all my life. My parents passed away when I was very young. But I remember my mother calling me her changeling. She was a specialist in medieval literature. A changeling originally meant a child of forest sprites who had been snuck into a home.” Esther found it easier to address her words to the empty fireplace. “I like Italian operas and Victorian architecture. I am a student of Talleyrand and Churchill and Machiavelli, whom I consider the three greatest strategists when it comes to risk management.”

She knew the words were disjointed and random. A new thought welled up so strong it nearly choked off her air. She whispered, “I need to tell someone.”

Craig asked, “Is this about your work?”

“Not the bank. But yes. In a way.”

“The economy?” When she nodded, Craig said, “What frightens you, Esther?”

“In the days following the Wall Street crash of 2008, I started what I call my Doomsday List.” Esther could hear the tension in her voice, a jagged quality she had never noticed before. Then again, she had never spoken of this. Not once. Not to anyone. “It began as two books. Book One contained all the certifiable factors that led to the collapse. I took no single source for what went in this first book. Every issue was confirmed by a minimum of three respected experts.”

The others had gone rock still. The only motion was when Rachel handed around coffees and then joined her husband on the loveseat. Craig asked quietly, “How many factors do you have listed in the book?”

“Five. I call them dynamics. Each holds a confirmed level of destructive force. None of them alone could cause another financial institution as large as Lehman Brothers to default. But put several of them together and that would cause a major meltdown.”

Craig now served as the group’s moderator. “You know this because you’ve calculated their potency, correct?”

“Yes. Book One now has six volumes, almost seven hundred pages of notes and calculations along with corroborating support.”

He nodded slowly. “And Book Two?”

“This contains other activities employed by financial institutions that I am fairly certain played a major role in the worldwide economy’s near collapse. This list holds another eleven dynamics.”

“But you can’t confirm their role.”

“Correct. Most of those dynamics are based on rumor and innuendo.” Esther hesitated, then added, “I also used sealed documents from Senate investigations.”

Craig asked, “And do you have allies who share your concerns?”

“A few.”

“These allies are professionals who trust your abilities as an analyst.”

Esther did not know what to say, so she remained silent.

“These dynamics,” Craig continued, “many of them are illegal, aren’t they?”

Again Esther did not reply.

“Which means you cannot confirm in any concrete way that they played a role in the economic mess.” Craig gave her a chance to respond, then asked, “Do you have a list of the banks you suspect use these methods?”

Her heart hammered in her chest. “They are on the front page of Book One.”

“How many banks are engaging in these dynamics?”

“In the US, sixteen. Globally, another forty-seven.”

“You notice I didn’t ask how many employed these dynamics prior to the 2008 crash.”

It was Esther’s turn to nod.

“Which means you are not simply doing an analysis of past events,” Craig said.

“Correct.”

“You are looking at the situation today.”

“Yes.”

“And that is what alarms you.”

“Yes.” Esther waited for someone to object. How the SEC held new regulatory powers. Or how the banks certainly must have learned the lessons of 2008 and pulled back from the wild maneuvers that had pushed the global economy to the brink. But no one breathed, no one moved.

That was when Esther hit the wall.

Her geeks used that phrase a lot. The wall could be anything—fatigue, stress, or simply an analysis that did not come together. Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same. One minute the data was pouring in, the analyst was cooking, the intel read like a good novel. The next minute . . . total confusion and panic.

Esther sprang to her feet, startling them all. Her mind scrambled for a way to take it all back, make the confession simply vanish. But all she could think to say was, “I have to go.”

They followed her to the door, but the gathering’s collective nature was gone. Craig seemed deeply concerned by her abrupt departure. Esther offered lame thanks for a lovely evening and hurried out to her car. As she drove away, one refrain echoed continually through her mind: They probably thought she was crazy. And maybe they were right.