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ERSON
FILTHY RICH
dramatically in anticipation.
of the earbuds: Britney Spears.
starts to dance, moving her
....
ng. She's twirling around and
rab the clothes hanging up in
thousand fans! Then she stops
ly she's become fourteen again.
w is what she will wear to the
in impression. This will be her
ot want to look like a child on
white jeans, puts on a freshly
r flat stomach bare. The cross
angs from her neck.
ney. Several weeks' wages at
some old man a massage? She
nto the closet, sings along with
block out the Barbies behind her. Over on the Gold Coast, girls
in big, high-ceilinged bedrooms have American Girl dolls. Dolls
with natural smiles, perfectly vacant moon faces. American Girl
dolls are beautiful. They're expensive. But you have to have one
if Mom and Dad are willing to pay. Over on the Coast, most
mothers and fathers are. But out in the sticks, where Mary lives,
you get Barbies—passed down from mother to daughter, from
sister to sister. They're rail-thin, missile-breasted. There's a touch
of knowingness to the curl of their otherwise innocent mouths.
American Girl dolls are girlie, but Barbie's like Britney Spears.
Barbie's dangling her long legs over the line that separates girls
from women.
Be like Barbie, Mary thinks.
She can't be nervous. Not now. Not today.
What she tells herself, over and over again, is: It's not that big
a deal.
But, of course, it is a big deal. Before long, Mary's visit to the
big fancy house will become part of a months-long Palm Beach
police investigation—an affidavit for probable cause, filed by
the Palm Beach PD—and, finally, the arrest and conviction of
the home's owner, Jeffrey Epstein.
c?
y perfectly. She turns to check
ig the scene with her fingers to
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