I stand there in my restoration room, phone still pressed to my ear, unable to move. The book on the table in front of me, 178 years old, precious, irreplaceable, suddenly seems very fragile.
Everything seems very fragile.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Gabe: Don't answer if they call.
Too late, I think. They already called.
And now I'm not just worried about Gabe dying. I'm worried about me dying too.
The shop suddenly feels too quiet, too isolated. The front door is locked but there are windows. The apartment upstairs has windows too, old ones with locks that probably wouldn't stop anyone determined.
I look down at my hands. They're shaking now.
I pack up my tools with movements that feel mechanical, distant, like I'm watching myself from outside my body. Lock the restoration room. Turn off the lights. Set the alarm. Check the lock twice.
The stairs up to my apartment have never felt so steep.
Inside, I lock the door and shoot the deadbolt and hook the chain. Then I stand there, breathing hard, listening to the sounds of the building. Pipes creaking. Someone's TV playing through the walls. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
But I don't feel safe.
I move through my tiny studio apartment, really just one room with a kitchenette and a bathroom and check the windows. They're locked. I pull the curtains closed anyway.
On my bed, there's a garment bag.
I should try it on. I should be excited about next week, about the interview, about the possibility of my dream job finally becoming real.
Instead, I'm thinking about my brother's text. About the man on the phone with his pleasant voice and terrible implications. About fifty thousand dollars I don't have and one week I don't have either.
I sink onto the bed, the garment bag crinkling under me, and finally let myself cry.
Not for long. I don't have time for long. But for a few minutes, I let myself fall apart in the privacy of my shitty apartment where no one can see.
Then I wash my face, change into pajamas, and unzip the garment bag.
The dress is simple but elegant, black, knee-length, fitted. Classic. Expensive. The kind of thing I'd never buy for myself in a million years.
I hold it up to my body and look in the mirror mounted on the back of my bathroom door.
The girl looking back at me is puffy-eyed and pale, her hair a mess, still wearing a ratty NYU t-shirt from college. Butwith the dress held in front of her, she could almost be someone else. Someone who belongs at a gala at The Palazzo Hotel. Someone whose biggest problem is which curator position to accept.
Someone whose brother isn't going to die.
I hang the dress carefully on the hook and get into bed, but I know I won't sleep. Instead, I lie there in the dark, listening to the sounds of the city outside my window, and try to figure out how to save my brother's life with money I don't have and one week that's already started ticking away.
CHAPTER 2
Adrian
The man in my chair is crying. The sad little whimpers coming out of his throat make me want to crush his voice box. Unfortunately, that would mean I wouldn't be getting the information out of him that I need.
"Please," he whimpers, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Please, I told you everything?—"
"You told me what you thought I wanted to hear." I wipe my hands on the towel Leo hands me, leaving dark red streaks across white cotton. "That's not the same as the truth."
My apartment is quiet except for the man's labored breathing and the soft jazz playing from the speakers. Coltrane. Leo's choice. He's leaning against my kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching with the detached interest of someone observing a mildly entertaining play.
Leo is always like this—detached. I think it's because he was in the military. I'm certain he's seen things worse than this. Not that we talk about it.
