They know.
Of course they do. Word travels faster in this place than a virus in a preschool.
I don’t acknowledge any of them. If I make eye contact, I’ll cry. If I speak, I’ll scream.
I push open the side door and step out into the early evening heat.
My car’s hot from sitting in the sun, and the air inside smells like old coffee and spilled perfume. I don’t bother with music. I just drive.
Each block I pass pulls me further from the life I’ve built, the one I thought was safe. Predictable. Good.
Fired.
Because I fell in love with the wrong man.
Except no one actually said that. Luntz didn’t name names. She just danced around it, hinting at “public perception” and “certain affiliations.” But she didn’t deny it either.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m not.
I pull into the driveway too fast, tires crunching against the gravel at the edge. Marcy’s car is already parked, crooked and close to the curb, as if she just flung it there without a second thought.
Of course my sister’s here.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
I should be getting ready for tonight. Decorating the back room at the clubhouse. Lighting candles. Sneaking cupcakes into the kitchen before Jinn arrives.
Instead, I’m unemployed.
My throat tightens, but I swallow it down.
I grab my tote, push open the door, and head inside.
The door creaks as I step inside, letting in the scent of fried food and fabric softener. The TV’s on in the living room, something loud and ridiculous, and Marcy’s sprawled on the couch in a hoodie and?—
No.
Not a hoodie.
A leather jacket.
My eyes catch on it immediately. Black. Fitted. The white block letters across the back flash like a spotlight in my brain.
Property of Jinn.
I take a second longer than I should to process it. I wore that jacket to work last week, just once, because I was running late and hadn’t grabbed a coat. Didn’t think twice about it.
But now, seeing it again, I feel my stomach sink.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe one of the interns, or old Mrs. Dillard from circulation, the one who clutches her pearls if you so much as say the word “motorcycle.” Word gets around. And today…Mrs. Luntz didn’t say Jinn’s name, but she didn’t have to. Somebody definitely snitched.
I close the door behind me and kick off my shoes, keeping my voice light. “Hey. You wearing my jacket?”
Marcy glances over her shoulder. “Yeah, I was cold. Yours was right there.”
I nod, dropping my bag by the side table. “Looks better on you anyway.”
