an oceanfront vacation house worth $10 million, was a thirty-eight-year-old hedge fund manager named Harris Fulkerson. I’d met him before, in New York, and for this visit, he’d invited me to spend the night in a private wing of his home, but, citing a scheduling conflict, I’d declined. I knew Bill relished such opportunities, establishing the bonds that arose when you shared scrambled eggs in your pajamas, but the thought of sharing scrambled eggs in my pajamas with an extremely rich person that I was only pretending to be friends with exhausted me.
