“I’m sorry,” Ruby says finally, staring straight ahead at our reflections in the polished doors. “I never drink this much. I just… I didn’t want to go home.”
“A casino is the worst place to be when you’re feeling down,” I reply, watching her in return. The elevator’s soft lighting smooths the shadows under her eyes but can’t hide the bone-deep exhaustion in her face. “It’s designed to prey on that exact feeling. The lights, the music—it’s all calibrated to keep you in a state of hopeful desperation.”
She turns to me, eyes sharp despite the wine. A strand of auburn hair falls across her face, and her hand trembles as she tucks it back. “Your poison.”
I shrug. “Everyone’s got to make a living.”
The elevator reaches the garage where my Aston Martin sits waiting, and Ruby runs her hand along its sleek body as I open the passenger door.
“Beautiful car.”
“The real beauty is in its power.” I press a button and the roof begins to retract. “You look like you could use some air.”
“Yeah.” She sinks into the leather seat with a small sigh of surrender and I get comfortable behind the wheel. Ruby tilts her head back, letting the night wash over her as we emerge from the garage.
I can’t stop stealing glances at my passenger while I drive. There’s something about Ruby Walsh that pulls at me, a recognition of kindred spirit perhaps. We’re both women who’ve gone through immense heartbreak. I have learned to deal with mine; she hasn’t.
The I-215 stretches before us like a ribbon of black silk, the desert wind whipping through the open roof. Ruby’s hair dances in the breeze, strands of auburn catching the moonlight.
“Mmm, this is nice,” she murmurs, her eyes heavy-lidded. “It’s…”
I glance over as her words trail off. Her head lolls against the headrest, lips slightly parted, tension finally draining from her face as sleep claims her. The supposedly ruthless woman who secured a huge deal just hours ago now looks peaceful and sweet.
I remember what it was like, those first raw years after my loss, when sleep only came in snatched moments of exhaustion. That was a long time ago.
My car purrs as we climb into the foothills, the landscape opening up around us.
Ruby shifts in her sleep, a small sound escaping her throat. I resist the urge to touch her cheek. Instead, I focus on the road ahead, and let her rest. Some forms of escape don’t require contracts or passwords. Sometimes all it takes is the night wind and an open road.
ELEVEN
RUBY
“Ruby? I need you to open the gate.”
Athena’s voice cuts through the fog of wine-induced sleep, and I jerk awake, momentarily disoriented. The Aston Martin idles in front of my driveway. Heat rushes to my face as I realize I’ve been sleeping—actually sleeping—in my neighbor’s car. The last fragments of a dream slip away, leaving only the warmth of the leather seat against my skin.
“God, I’m sorry,” I mumble, fumbling for the gate remote in my purse. My fingers feel clumsy, disconnected from my brain. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.” The admission feels like failure. I’ve been shamefully reduced to dozing like a child on the drive home.
“Don’t be sorry. You clearly needed it,” Athena says. The gates swing open, and she guides the car up my drive.
The house looms before us, dark except for the motion-sensing lights that flicker on as we approach. It looks forbidding at night—all sharp angles and empty windows, like a mausoleum dressed up as a home. Claire loved this house.She saw past the stark modernity to its potential for warmth and life. Now it’s just a shell.
“Thank you so much. I can manage from here,” I say as Athena kills the engine. The words come out less confidently than I’d like. “Thank you.”
I push open the door and stand, but the world tilts alarmingly. My hand shoots out to steady myself against the car, leaving a sweaty palm print on its flawless polish. The wine that made me brave at dinner now makes me weak and wobbly, and I could kick myself for having too much.
“Clearly,” Athena says dryly. She’s already out of the car and at my side, one hand on my elbow. “Let me help you inside.”
“That’s not necessary,” I protest, but my feet betray me, stumbling on the flagstone path. Athena’s arm slides around my waist, strong and sure, and something in me wants to lean into that strength, to let someone else be in control for once. The thought terrifies me but right now, I have no choice.
“Your keys?” she asks, and I surrender them without argument.
My heels echo in the emptiness as we enter the foyer, and Athena guides me toward the stairs.
“I really am fine,” I murmur, but there’s no conviction in my words. “Second door on the right.”
My bedroom door swings open, and I become vaguely aware of what Athena must see—the untouched side of the king-size bed; Claire’s reading glasses on her nightstand, gathering dust as my cleaner is not allowed to touch them; the framed photo of us in Tuscany that I can’t bring myself to look at but can’t bear to take down either.
