Page 18 of Seven
I held the phone between my shoulder and ear while trying to fix my eyeliner. "Got it."
Geneva was typing as she talked. I heard the tap-tap of her nails on screen. "I'm texting you a list with bullet points and conversation starters. Please, please remember, you're better at this than you think. You just need to talk us up."
"I know the drill. Don't worry," I said, even though I myself was extremely nervous. I hadn't been to an event like this in a few years and going back in was scary.
"You're going to crush it, hon," Geneva supplied eagerly.
I doubted that, but I wanted her to have this little bit of faith.
She hung up before I could say anything else.
I finished my eyeliner in four strokes. It was imperfect, but I liked that. I added a bit of eyeshadow to smooth it over.
My heels waited by the bed. I'd spent the afternoon breaking them in around the living room, marching circuits until my toes went numb. I hated that I needed armor for an event like this, but if it meant not tripping in front of investors, I'd take the blisters.
I went through my purse, double-checked that my wallet, keys, phone, and pepper spray were all present.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, and tried to meditate. Dr. Carney always said it helped. But she'd failed to mention how hard it would actually be to clear my head when the future looked like a field of landmines.
The urge to move crushed me.
I pulled out my phone and opened the news. It was almost a compulsion. I'd been checking it every day, waiting for signs of Ronan Wick, Jerico Thorne, or Caius Valmont getting what they deserved. But days passed by and nothing was happening.
This was probably another reason for my constant anxiety.
And then I saw Jerico Thorne's face on the fourth link down. A photo of him showed him shaking hands with someone. I looked at the headline.
Thorne Capital Closes Historic Merger: CEO is Optimistic for Future
I stared, waiting for something else, a scandal, a mention of the police. Nothing.
My heart sank.
I kept scrolling. Caius was in a society column, the kind that listed the best-dressed men at a black-tie gala. He wore a suit the color of midnight and a smile that made my stomach knot. The article said he was "one to watch." A beautiful woman stood next to him. They both wore rings.
I set the phone down and let my hands hang limp in my lap.
Had I really been scammed?
Was this Bureau even real?
Had I imagined it all?
The man in the hat, the talk in the park. Maybe I'd made up the whole thing, chasing some fantasy of justice that would never come. Maybe I was going crazy.
I thought about cancelling. My finger hovered over Geneva's contact. If I texted now, she'd understand. But she needed this, needed me to at least try. Because there were other people whose livelihoods depended on this event.
I checked the clock. It was way past five. Too late to back out.
I stood, did another lap around the apartment, adjusted the angle of a picture frame on my living room wall, even though the angle was already perfect. Then I stopped at the mirror again and ripped off the price tag from the dress before I changed my mind.
Now, I had no choice but to go to the mixer.
6 seven
I was alone at a corner table on the rooftop café, watching the city sprawl beneath my boots. A baseball cap kept the sun from my eyes, and a black bandana was pulled down, stuck just beneath my chin. My head was angled toward the table so no one would see my features. My helmet sitting on the empty chair completed the look.
The dress code was meant to let me blend into the noise and disappear in plain sight.
