clarity. The Seven of Wands. Betrayal just around the bend. And then I understood: the visions from the night before didn’t have anything to do with Julie Zale—they had to do with her, the woman with the locket. I curled myself into a ball, another phantom fly working its way along my thigh.
LILY
I WOKE TO THE SCREECH of my alarm, and as soon as I sat up I felt the lurch in my stomach. Oh, I thought dully, as the bar, the bourbon came back to me. I looked at my phone. I had dialed Matthew’s number five times. I even called Ramona twice. Based on the call log, it didn’t seem like I had spoken to either of them: each call was between eight and ten seconds long. I wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing or another humiliation.
It was 6:15. I’d need to be at the spa in an hour to learn opening procedures. I ran through all the things that needed to happen by then. Four types of makeup. Hair washed and styled. Press the wrinkles out of my jacket. Pepto-Bismol, water, gag down dry toast.
I showered, smeared a little eye shadow on. The swing of the vanity mirror in the bathroom made me dizzy as I opened it and rooted around for brushes, Q-tips, hair spray. Even with makeup I looked clammy, pale. I heard Brett’s voice. You wanted to start your own gallery, right? I slunk out without ironing my blazer. When I started the car and backed out of the driveway, I wondered if I wasn’t still too drunk to drive.
* * *
IN THE parking lot I took another swig of Pepto-Bismol before stepping out of the car, and the taste of chalk and fruit made my guts twist. I hurried down the stairs and through the crosswalk to the circular drive that led to the main lobby of the casino. The elaborate topiaries that flanked either side of the entrance had overgrown, become fuzzy and indistinct at their edges. A lone gardener watered a patch of red impatiens, holding out the hose in one hand and scrolling through his phone with another. As I passed him, I could smell the sweet, metallic scent of the water trickling from the hose, and it reminded me of my childhood: My father mowing the lawn while my mother planted in the garden, pulled weeds, mulched. The softness and idyll of the memory was like a pastel drawing preserved under glass.
At the top of the drive, near the valet stand, a woman in Lucite stilettos was hailing a cab. She wore a Lycra dress with cutouts that showed the notches of her ribs. A long, thin scar ran down the back of her calf, and there was a tattoo of a peach above her left breast. She must have felt my stare, because before she turned to get into the taxi she stopped and blew me a kiss, then gave me the finger. The man at the valet stand saw it all and laughed heartily. I’m not a prude! I wanted to shout. I’ve seen things! I’ve done things! I lived in goddamned New York City! But I stayed quiet, and as I passed, the valet tipped his cap, gave me a smug little smile. I thought again of Clara and Des, the things Emily had suggested about them. About Clara’s rounded cheeks.
I hurried down the long hall that led to the new wing, past housekeepers vacuuming neat stripes in the carpet and janitors emptying ashtrays into garbage bags, but when I got to the spa the front door was locked. Through the glass, I watched as a man ran a rag over the top of the steel desk. I tapped on the glass, but he didn’t turn. I tapped harder. The man had turned and was walking toward the coffee table with all of the magazines when he saw me. I waved like an idiot. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
“Hi, I’m Lily.” I pointed to my name tag, panting from my jog down the hall. “I work here.” He frowned. “Can I please come inside? It’s the beginning of my shift. I’m new and don’t want to be late.”
He stared at me warily for another moment before stepping aside so I could pass. I walked as quickly as I could toward the back of the spa, where we were meant to clock in with our swipe cards. I rooted through my purse