A man answered—older, with the kind of smile that made her skin crawl even as she tried to return it. “You are looking for Spyros?” he said in accented English.
Flora nodded.
“You are a bit late but it’s OK. You are eighteen, my dear?” Flora nodded again, hoping he didn’t ask for ID.
She was finally somewhere that mattered.
He led her through rooms that belonged in a museum, past other men who looked at her with expressions she couldn’t quite read but that made her pull Isabelle’s jacket around herself. The living room was full of girls who looked like models, beautiful and completely at ease, smoking.
Where was Isabelle?
“Wine?” A man appeared beside her with a glass already full. “Welcome dear. I’m Spyros. You look like you could use something to relax. This wine is from my family’s vineyard on Naxos.”
The first sip made her cough. It was strong, bitter and sharp and nothing like the wine coolers she’d tried once in Savannah.
“It’s an acquired taste.” Spyros’s smile was understanding, paternal. “But you seem mature for your age—I think you’ll appreciate it.”
Mature. The word sent a thrill through Flora.
“You’re very quiet,” he said, settling into the chair beside her. “Thoughtful. I like that in a young woman. Still waters run deep, as they say.”
His knee brushed against hers, and Flora moved away instinctively. But there was nowhere to go—she was trapped in the corner. “I should probably find my sister,” Flora said.
“Sister?” Spyros’s eyes sharpened. “What’s her name?”
“Isabelle. Isabelle Willingham.”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, then calculation. “Ah. Yes. She’s…working right now. But what’s the rush? You’ve only just arrived.”
Working?
Over the man’s shoulder, Flora scanned for Isabelle’s familiar face among the strangers. The house was bigger than she’d realized, with hallways leading to rooms she couldn’t see.
“Maybe you’d like to audition too?” he said.
“Audition?”
He touched her face and gazed at her. Flora had never wanted to be invisible more in her entire life. But it was too late.
82
Lee
Lee settled into her First-Classseat. She tucked her shoes in the little pocket to the left of her feet. In the storage cabinet to her right, she put her pills. She took rosemary-scented hand lotion from the amenity kit and rubbed it into her fingers, then applied the tiny lip gloss and pulled an airplane-logo pen from its plastic bag. She considered writing something down, but in the end couldn’t come up with anything to say.
Lee scrolled Instagram mindlessly, hunching low in her seat—she didn’t want to be recognized. She spotted a story posted by Isabelle and touched her thumb to the screen to watch her niece’s latest inappropriate, borderline-pornographic snapshots: a selfie of Isabelle in a low-cut dress, posing with a grown man at least Lee’s age. Lee shook her head: She knew the look on Isabelle’s face—the preening need to seem older than she was. And the guy looked like bad news for sure.
Lee stared at the photos—Isabelle posed and overeager, trying to seem sophisticated. It was like looking at her teenaged self, learning to weaponize beauty before understanding the cost. Had Lee taught Isabelle this? Had she shown her niece that being desired was the same as being loved?
Lee texted Regan:Isabelle just posted a worrisome Instagram. Do you know where she is?
The message showed “Delivered” but not “Read.”
“Goddamn it,” Lee muttered.
She called Regan.
Straight to voicemail. She remembered that Regan had been planning a ladies’ night at the ballet, and must have turned off her notifications during the performance.
