“A searing memoir of loss and redemption.” — People In the tradition of New York Times bestsellers What Remains by Carole Radziwill and Oh the Glory of It All by Sean Wilsey, Christina McDowell’s unflinching memoir is a brutally honest, cautionary tale about one family’s destruction in the wake of the Wall Street implosion. Christina McDowell was born Christina Prousalis. She had to change her name to be legally extricated from the trail of chaos her father, Tom Prousalis, left in the wake of his arrest and subsequent imprisonment as one of the guilty players sucked into the collateral fallout of Jordan Belfort (the “Wolf of Wall Street”). Christina worshipped her father and the seemingly perfect life they lived…a life she finds out was built on lies. Christina’s family, as is typically the case, had no idea what was going on. Nineteen-year-old Christina drove her father to jail while her mother dissolved in denial. Since then, Christina’s life has been decimated. As her family floundered in rehab, depression, homelessness, and loss, Christina succumbed to the grip of alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity before finding catharsis in the most unlikely of places. From the bucolic affluence of suburban Washington, DC, to the A-list clubs and seedy underbelly of Los Angeles, this provocative memoir unflinchingly describes the harsh realities of a fall from grace. Full of nineties nostalgia and access to the inner circles of the Washingtonian societal elite, Christina McDowell’s beautiful memoir is a Blue Jasmine story from a daughter’s perspective. "[Christina McDowell] exposes the side of ‘Wolf of Wall Street’ we didn’t get to see." ( Metro US ) "[A] gritty, heart-wrenching memoir." ( Parade.com ) "McDowell traces how her privileged family lost everything...and that was only the beginning of her nosedive." ( O Magazine ) "Christina McDowell opens up about her Wolf of Wall Street life." ( MarieClaire.com ) "[A] buzzy book...McDowell lays bare the sad and sordid aftermath of her father's deserved downfall." (Sherryl Connelly New York Daily News ) “[Christina McDowell] reflects on how facing up to loss can lead to new beginnings.” ( Porter Magazine ) "[Christina McDowell] has written a memoir about the fallout from her father's crimes, a tale of the American Dream upended." ( The Village Voice, Fifteen Books You Need to Read in 2015 ) "A searing memoir of loss and redemption." ( People Magazine ) "With insight and vulnerability, McDowell slowly tears apart the denial and ignorance that sustained her privileged upbringing, and illustrates how a downward spiral can, in brave hands, be a prelude to a hopeful reinvention." (J. Ryan Stradal, New York Times bestselling author of Kitchens of the Great Midwest) "Beautifully written, impossible to put down, and searingly honest. This book is a dream read." (Laurie Sandell, author of The Imposter's Daughter) Originally from McLean, Virginia, Christina McDowell currently resides in Los Angeles with her dog, Zelda Fitzgerald. She volunteers for InsideOUT Writers, a nonprofit for children impacted by the criminal justice system. After Perfect -1- The Phone Call The roads were quiet, and white frost covered the otherwise green hills of Virginia. No one could hear the engines of several government-marked SUVs traveling one before the other, like soldiers down Dolley Madison Boulevard. Like every other typical morning in our house, my father was the first awake. He was leaning over the marble sink in the master bathroom in his boxer shorts shaving the outer edges of his Clark Gable mustache with an electric razor. His collection of Hermès ties hung on a rack alongside the open closet door opposite his collection of Brooks Brothers suits. In the background, CNN reported on the television screen behind him: “Jury selection began Tuesday in the Martha Stewart criminal trial, where the self-made lifestyle maven will try to defend herself against charges of obstruction of justice, making false statements, and securities fraud.” The NASDAQ and Dow Jones numbers crawled along the bottom. I asked my father once what the numbers meant. He replied, “Don’t worry about it, that’s your dad’s job.” My mother was sitting in front of the gold-framed mirror at her vanity table just down the corridor. Her hair pulled back with a navy scrunchy, she was examining her wrinkles and moving her skin with her hands to see how she would look with a face-lift. Sometimes she forgot how beautiful she was. As a little girl, strangers would pull me aside at the market and ask, “Hey, kid, is your mom a movie star?” She wrapped her silk bathrobe around her nightgown and headed to the kitchen to put on the morning coffee. Chloe was upstairs grabbing her gym bag and lacrosse stick. Her boyfriend kept honking the horn of his Jeep Grand Cherokee out front. “Coming!” she yelled as if he could hear her. The SUVs continued on, passing an unmarked security house where, next to it in