The thing about intelligent women was that they noticed everything.
I had understood this about Isabelle Ferreira from the moment I met her — from the way she listened at that first Sunday brunch, the quality of her attention, the precision of her questions. She was a corporate attorney who argued complex cases in front of rooms full of people whose job it was to find holes in her reasoning. She had spent years training herself to see what was actually happening beneath the surface of what was being presented.
Which meant that whatever I thought I was concealing, I was probably concealing approximately half of it.
I thought about this on the subway ride home from the Calloway dinner party, sitting with my coat in my lap and the Friday night city rushing past the dark windows. I thought
