John no longer condemned her for her gluttony. The chocolates gave her pleasure, he supposed, and there was precious little of that in her bleak, tragic existence these days.

Some nights, after purchasing the chocolates, he would return to his office and work until fatigue overcame him and he'd be forced to go home. As he maneuvered his BMW convertible up St. Charles to the Garden District of New Orleans, he'd inevitably start shaking as if he were suffering from hypothermia, but he wouldn't actually become physically ill until he entered the black-and-white foyer of his house. Gripping the box of chocolates in his hand, he'd place his Gucci briefcase on the hall table and stand there in front of the gilded mirror for a minute or two taking deep, calming breaths. They never soothed him, but he repeated the habit anyway night after night. His harsh breathing would mingle with the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall adjacent to the mirror. The tick-tick-tick would remind him of the timer on a bomb. A bomb that was inside his head and about to explode.

Calling himself a coward, he would make himself go upstairs. His shoulders would tense and his stomach would twist into knots as he slowly climbed the circular staircase, his legs feeling as though they were encased in cement socks. By the time he reached the end of the long hallway, perspiration would dot his brow and he would feel cold and clammy.

He'd wipe his forehead with his handkerchief, plaster a phony smile on his face, and open the door, trying with all his might to mentally brace himself for the foul stench hanging in the air. The room smelled of iron pills, and the thick vanilla-scented air freshener the maids insisted on spraying into the stagnant air only made the stench worse. Some nights it was so bad, he had to hurry out of the room on a false errand before she heard him gag. He would go to any length to keep her from knowing how repulsed he was.

Other nights his stomach could handle it. He'd close his eyes while he leaned down and kissed her forehead, then he'd move away while he talked to her. He'd stand by the treadmill he'd bought for her a year after they were married. He couldn't remember if she had ever turned it on. A stethoscope and two identical, voluminous, floral silk bathrobes hung on its handlebars now, and its wide black vinyl belt wore a coat of dust. The maids never seemed to remember to clean it. Sometimes, when he couldn't bear to look at Catherine, he'd turn and stare out the arched Palladian windows at the softly lit English garden behind the house, enclosed like all the other minuscule yards with a black wrought-iron fence.

The television would be blaring behind him. It was on twenty-four hours a day, turned to either the talk shows or the shopping network. She never thought to turn it down when he was talking to her, and he'd gotten to the point where he could ignore it. Although he'd learned to block the incessant chatter, he often found himself marveling over the deterioration of her brain. How could she watch such drivel hour after hour after hour? There had been a time, before the illness took over her life and her personality, when she had been an intellectual who could cut any adversary to the quick with one of her incredibly clever whiplash retorts. He remembered how she loved to debate politics-put a right-wing conservative at her impeccably appointed dinner table and there were guaranteed fireworks-but now all she wanted to talk about and worry about were her bowel functions. That-and food, of course. She was always eager to talk about her next meal.

He often thought back seven years to their wedding day and remembered how desperately he had wanted her. These days, he dreaded being in the same room with her-he slept in the guest quarters now-and the torment was like acid in his stomach, eating him alive.

Before she had taken to her bed out of necessity, she'd had the spacious suite decorated in pale green tones. The furniture was oversized Italian Renaissance, and there were statues of two favored Roman poets— Ovid and Virgil. The plaster busts squatted on white pedestals flanking the bay window. He had actually liked the room when the clever young interior designer had finished it, so much so that he'd hired her to redecorate his office, but now he despised the bedroom because it represented what was now missing in his life.

As much as he tried, he couldn't escape the constant reminders. A couple of weeks ago he'd met one of his partners at a trendy new bistro on Bienville for lunch, but as soon as he walked inside and saw the pale green walls, his stomach lurched and he had trouble catching his breath. For a few terror-filled minutes he was certain he was having a heart attack. He should have called 911 for help, but he didn't. Instead, he ran outside into the sunlight, taking deep, gasping breaths. The sun on his face helped, and he realized then that he was in the throes of a full-blown anxiety attack.

At times he was certain he was losing his mind.

Thank God for the support of his three closest friends. He met them for drinks every Friday afternoon to unwind, and how he lived for Fridays when he could unburden himself. They would listen and offer him solace and compassion.

What an ironic twist, that he should be the one out drinking with his buddies, while Catherine was the one wasting away in solitude. If the Fates were going to punish one of them for past sins, why her and not him? Catherine had always been the upstanding, morally superior one in the marriage. She had never broken a law in her life, had never even gotten a parking ticket, and she would have been stunned if she'd known all that John and his friends had done.

They called themselves the Sowing Club. Cameron, at thirty-four, was the oldest in the group. Dallas and John were both thirty-three, and Preston, whom they had nicknamed Pretty Boy because of his dark good looks, was the youngest at thirty-two. The four friends had gone to the same private school, and though they were in different classes, they had been drawn to each other because they had so much in common. They shared the same drive, the same goals, the same ambition. They also shared the same expensive tastes, and they didn't mind breaking the law to get what they wanted. They started down the criminal path in high school when they found out how easy it was to get away with petty larceny. They also discovered it wasn't very lucrative. On a lark, they committed their first felony when they were in college-robbery of a jewelry store in a nearby town-and they fenced the precious gems like pros. Then John, the most analytical in the group, decided the risks were too great for the return they were getting-even the best-laid plans could go wrong because of the elements of chance and surprise-and so they began committing more sophisticated white-collar crimes, using their education to foster connections.

Their first real windfall came from the Internet. Using their sleek laptops, they purchased worthless stocks under an alias, flooded the chat rooms with false data and rumors, and then, after the stocks had skyrocketed, sold their shares before the security

regulators discovered what was going on. The return on that little venture was over five thousand percent.

Every dollar they extorted or stole was put in the Sowing Club account in the Cayman Islands. By the time the four of them had finished graduate school and taken positions in New Orleans, they had collected over four million dollars.

And that only whetted their appetites.

During one of their gatherings, Cameron told the others that if a psychiatrist ever examined them, he would discover that they were all sociopaths. John disagreed. A sociopath didn't consider anyone else's needs or desires. They, on the contrary, were committed to the club and to the pact that they had made to do whatever they had to do to get what they wanted. Their goal