The hall is lined with New Year’s tinsel. My arm throbs under the bandage when I push Clara’s door.
She’s propped up, pale but awake. No oxygen. Hair in a messy loop that’s pretending to be a bun. The monitor draws a calm little mountain range in green.
“Happy almost New Year,” she says and smiles.
“I have to say,” I tease, “the way you handled this whole thing was very rude.” I set my bag down. “You were supposed to wait to almost die untilafterNew Year’s. Champagne,thenhospital.” I grin, and she matches it.
“Ugh, champagne. Pass the ginger ale.” She reaches for my hand. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I have.” Lie. “Mostly.” Another lie.
Her eyes skim my face. I look away and fluff her pillow to avoid her gaze. There’s a table with a water cup and the TV remote. I slide an envelope under the tissue box.
“What’s that?”
“Rent, food, a buffer…. In case you need anything.”
“Cass,” she says in that knowing tone only an older sister has. “What’s going on?”
“It’s for peace of mind. I’m going to be away for a while.”
I drop the sentence like it’s nothing but a little, insignificant detail. Silly me, thinking she wouldn’t pick up on it.
“Away where?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why?”
“Because.” I force a smile. “It’s complicated.”
“You don’t get to ‘because’ me.” She sits up tall, her sign that she’s gearing up for a fight. “What is going on?”
“I’m just… resetting some work stuff.” Liar, liar, winter coat on fire.
She stares at me until I feel twelve again. “Cass, don’t you dare leave this room without telling me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Part of me hates how she can give me one look and make me feel like a kid again. But more than that, I hate that she’s right. My chest gets tight, my blood runs cold.
I try another joke, but it crawls out dead. “You’re supposed to be lying still and making pretty green lines on the monitor, not grilling me.”
“Talk.”
So much for getting out of it.
I sit. My hands find the corner of the blanket and smooth it nervously, trying to put off the confession I know I need to make. My delay lasts four seconds before the dam breaks fast and furious. I’m bad at lying to the one person who taught me not to.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling sharply. “There’s a company called The Velvet Ledger. They advertise executive placement, but that is not what they do. I’ve been taking jobs through them for a couple of months now—clean ones. Escorting. No sex, I swear. Just standing next to rich men and making them look more interesting.”
Clara’s mouth forms a tight line. She’s not happy.
“Go on.”
“One of those placements was with Damien Kozlov.” Saying his name here feels like lighting a match at a gas station.
Her eyes go wide. “Damien Kozlov? The billionaire? With mob ties?”
“The very same.”
