The cashier, a bored teenager with purple hair, scans the box.
"Eighteen ninety-nine," she pops her gum.
I pull the twenty from my bra. It’s warm. I hand it to her.
"Keep the change," I say. "No receipt."
She shrugs. "Whatever."
I grab the bag. I shove the box into my purse, deep down under my sketchbook and pencils.
I walk out.
I don't go back to the penthouse immediately. That would look suspicious. A five-minute trip? No. I need to buy the cover story.
I go to the bodega next door. I buy a bag of Haribo gummy bears with the change I found in the bottom of my purse.
I walk back to the building.
James opens the door. "Successful mission, Mrs. Vane?"
I hold up the gummy bears. "Mission accomplished."
I get in the elevator.
As the numbers climb—10, 20, 30, PH—the dread settles in my stomach like a stone.
I am holding a grenade in my purse. And I am about to pull the pin.
The bathroom in the master suite is vast. Marble floors, gold fixtures, a bathtub big enough for four people.
I lock the door.
Silas hates locked doors. But I have an excuse.Stomach ache.
I take the box out. I rip the packaging open, my hands shaking so badly I tear the cardboard to shreds.
I read the instructions.Wait three minutes.
I do it.
I set the stick on the marble counter.
I sit on the closed toilet lid.
I wait.
The silence in the bathroom is deafening. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.Whoosh. Whoosh.
What if it’s negative?
Relief? Yes. Immense relief. We can go back to being the King and Queen of the underworld. We can travel. I can paint. We can live our twisted, beautiful, dangerous life without complications.
What if it’s positive?
I wrap my arms around myself, rocking slightly.
A baby.
