Page 5

It’s been three days since that man dragged me into the alley and threatened me with Millie’s life… and my own. I’ve been an anxious wreck ever since. All I can think about is my assignment.

“I understand. This job, as rewarding as it is, can be draining. Lucky for you, it’s the last day of your internship. You must be excited.” She gives me a little wink, and despite myself, a laugh escapes.

“I am excited.”

“But…?”

I sigh. This was supposed to be a moment Millie and I shared. We’ve been joined at the hip since I was six, when my last foster parents dropped me back at the home and I found her already moved into my room. We fought at first, but we’ve been sisters ever since.

When I decided on nursing school, she looked at me for about three seconds, said Why not? and enrolled with me. We started our clinical rotations at the same time, even though hers were at a different clinic. Almost every milestone in our lives has been crossed side by side, and we’d been counting down to this one—our last victory before graduation.

“It’s a family problem,” I say, my heart heavy.

Nurse Collins’s brows pull together, but she doesn’t press for more. “Well, maybe you’ll be glad to hear that the board was pleased with your performance. Once you pass your licensing exam, there’s an offer waiting for you here.”

My eyes widen in stunned relief. I love working here at St. Mark’s Medical Center. “That—that’s amazing. I⁠—”

Nurse Collins laughs. “You deserve it, Grace. You’ve worked hard since day one. Nurses like you are what this city needs.”

Her words help soothe my troubled soul. “Thank you.”

“No, your hard work brought you here, nothing else. Remember that, Nurse Turner.” With that, she gets up and leaves.

Nurse Turner. That will be me in a couple of months, once I pass the NCLEX-RN.

I float to my feet, worries momentarily forgotten—well, almost. I never really forget about Millie.

Still… she called me Nurse Turner.

Exhaustion clings to my bones, but pride and excitement surge stronger, and for the first time in at least three days, I feel myself smile. It’s a tiny smile, and I can feel it twisting at the edges into a half-frown, but at least it’s something other than sorrow, and it lasts nearly the entire trip home—until my building comes into view.

The smile vanishes from my lips and my shoulders slump forward.

What’s the point of all this excitement if I can’t share it with my best friend?

The familiar suffocating weight settles back in as I walk inside, my steps slowing. This is the other part of why I lingered outside of St. Mark’s so long after my shift ended. Ever since I learned Millie was in danger, coming home has felt like walking into a void.

Think about poor Millicent and how easy it was for me to get to you tonight. We can take both of your lives. Just. Like. That.

My limbs grow heavier as I climb up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. When I turn the corner, my steps falter.

There’s a box waiting outside our door.

It looks ordinary enough—plain brown, neatly sealed, a printed label with my name on it—but ordinary isn’t a word that belongs in my life right now, and my stomach knots as I tentatively pick it up with one hand, unlock the door with the other, and take it inside.

Home sweet home. Our apartment is one cramped open space that doubles as the living room and kitchen, plus two even smaller bedrooms, and a bathroom Millie and I share. It’s not much, but it’s a thousand times better than what we grew up with. After years of sharing everything with the other kids at the foster home, it felt like a small miracle to move into our own place.

My chest tightens at the good memory, like my body can’t handle it right now, like there’s only room for the bad.

Damn it, we worked so hard for this, and now it’s all going down the drain. I told Millie to stay away from those “jobs”—especially the last one, and that was before I even knew who her target was. I just had such a bad feeling about it…

You’re too much of a goody two-shoes, she’d teased, her eyes twinkling. I’ll be fine. And think—when I’m done, we’ll finally be able to pay off our debts. Maybe even treat ourselves for once!

“Yeah, treat ourselves to nice caskets,” I mutter into the quiet apartment as I drop the slightly heavy box onto the kitchen counter.

I open the top drawer and take out the burner phone I was given. Sure enough, a text is waiting for me. It’s an address. Specifically, an address with a date and time. There’s an event happening tomorrow evening, and my presence is required. Underneath that are two lines that require no further explanation: You know what to do. Remember what’s at stake.

My heart slams into my ribs.