The Secret History

by Donna Tartt

“Hi. I’m Sophie Dearbold.” “Well, you’re mighty pretty. Isn’t she pretty, boys. You look just like your aunt Jean, honey.” “What?” said Sophie, after a confused pause. “Why, your aunt, honey. Your daddy’s sister. That pretty Jean Lickfold that won the ladies’ golf tournament out at the club last year.” “No, sir. Dearbold.” “Dearfold. Well, isn’t that strange. I don’t know of any Dearfolds around here. Now, I used to know a fellow name of Breedlow, but that must have been, oh, twenty years ago. He was in business. They say he embezzled a cool five million from his partner.” “I’m not from around here.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, in a manner reminiscent of Bunny. “No?” he said. “No.” “Not from Shady Brook?” He said it as if he could hardly believe it. “No.” “Then where you from, honey? Greenwich?” “Detroit.” “Bless your heart then. To come all this way.” Sophie, smiling, shook her head and started to explain when, with absolutely no warning, Mr. Corcoran flung his arms around her and burst into tears. We were frozen with horror. Sophie’s eyes, over his heaving shoulder, were round and aghast as if he’d run her through with a knife. “Oh, darling,” he wailed, his face buried deep in her neck. “Honey, how are we going to get along without him?”