That should be a relief.
It’s the scariest thing I’ve heard all day.
31
Luke
The yoga instructor’s name is Celeste.She teaches sunrise classes on the rooftop of a boutique hotel in Fredericksburg—the kind of place that charges eighteen dollars for a smoothie and calls it “nourishment.”She’s got a following.Instagram.Podcast.A book deal that fell apart when someone found out she wasn’t as enlightened as her captions suggested.
That’s not why I’m here.
I’m here because Celeste has been blackmailing a client of mine—a woman named Dana whose husband made the mistake of sleeping with Celeste at a retreat in Sedona and whose bigger mistake was letting Celeste photograph the two of them together.The kind of photos you don’t take unless you’re planning to use them.
Dana’s been paying for six months.Fifteen thousand so far.Her husband doesn’t know.Celeste keeps raising the price.
Dana’s sister called me.Didn’t say much.Just: “Make it stop.”
So here I am.Five forty-five a.m.The rooftop is still slick with dew.Celeste arrives with her mat tucked under one arm, looking like a woman who’s never sweated a day in her life and charges other people to try.
She doesn’t notice me until she’s halfway through her setup.
“Celeste.”
Her head snaps up.Shields her eyes.“Do I know you?”
“No.But I know you.”I stay where I am.Seated.Calm.“I know about Dana.I know about the photos.And I know you’ve charged her fifteen grand to keep them to yourself.”
Her face goes flat.Not scared—still.The serene confidence of a woman who thinks karma only applies to other people.
I place the USB drive on the ledge beside me.“That’s for you.Your tax returns.2017 through 2019.The ones you didn’t file.Plus the ones you filed wrong.All that income you didn’t report.”I pause.“I’ve got a friend at the IRS who would find it all very interesting.”
Her hand hovers over the drive and her eyes fill with tears.
“You delete those photos,” I say, “and this stays between us.You keep them, I make a phone call.Simple.”
“I could go to the police.”
“And tell them what?That a stranger showed you your own tax returns?”I lean back.“Go ahead.While you’re there, they might ask why Dana’s been wiring you money every month.Might even make the news.You’ve got the following for it.”
She straightens.The tears stop.Just like that—like a faucet she controls.And for a second I see something underneath the sunrise mantras and the smoothie spirituality.Something cold.Something that’s been bleeding a woman dry for six months without losing sleep.
“You don’t know who I know,” she says.Quiet.Steady.Not a bluff—a warning.
“Yeah,” I say.“I do.That’s the thing about leverage, Celeste.It works both ways.I know who you know.I know who they know.And I know what happens when people like that find out you’ve been sloppy with their money.”
The cold thing behind her eyes dies.Quiet.Like a pilot light going out.
And suddenly she’s crying again.Controlled.The kind of cry that still has good posture.
I don’t look away.
She reaches for the USB.Pulls it close like a secret she’s tired of keeping.
“You delete the photos.You stop contacting Dana.That’s it.I won’t be back.”
She’s already nodding.
I stand.Head for the stairs, past the yoga mats and citronella candles.Nobody looks up.Nobody stops me.The sunrise is doing something obscene with the skyline and I don’t care.
