out of the garage to street-level. I’d fixed up my face a bit with the compact and lipstick I had in my purse, and tied my blond hair up in a sloppy morning-after bun. My sunglasses mask the fact that my eyes aren’t puffy and swollen from my usual hangover, just lack of sleep and an excess of criminal activity. I totter carelessly up the street, wincing at the bright sun. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and the press is out in full force. I hear them before I see them, like a swarm of bees.
The first cameraman recognizes me when I’m a block away. Everyone else has their focus trained on the front doors, stupidly convinced I’m hunkered down inside. A shout goes up and they turn as one to mob me, the cries and questions deafening. Cameras and microphones bump my face, and I feel grasping hands and fingers on my arms, my legs, the hem of my skirt. I’m wearing yesterday’s panties, so we can rule out a new crotch shot.
“Reese!” they scream in unison. “Is it true your father has been arrested? Is it true he’s been stealing from clients? Were you helping him, Reese? There’s rumors of missing money! Do you know where it is, Reese?”
I force a vapid smile and clutch my purse to my chest as I shoulder my way toward the front door. Over the heads of the reporters I see Trapper’s stern face as he stalks through the crowd, flanked by two men in dark glasses.
“It’s just a misunderstanding!” I say dismissively. “Everything will be fine.”
“Where were you last night?” someone asks.
“Who were you with?”
I grasp the bag even tighter, keeping my palms hidden.
“She looks like she’s been drinking,” someone adds.
“What’s new?”
“Who designed your dress, Reese?”
This is hardly my first walk of shame, but it’s the first time I’ve actually felt ashamed of what I did the night before.
A hand grips my arm, and I know it’s Trapper even before I hear his voice ordering the crowd to give me some space. The men in shades have earpieces, dark wires coiling into the necklines of their navy jackets. The same jacket Trapper’s wearing, FBI stenciled across the breast in yellow.
The letters barely have time to sink in before he’s ushering me into the lobby, my toes squealing in the tight shoes. I stumble, and he mutters something under his breath. The only word I catch is “stupid.”
This morning when I left my mother’s apartment I threw the sheets and each item of clothing from last night into a different dumpster. I poured bleach down the shower drain and ran the hot water for ten minutes. I found a pen and sketched a tiny diamond on my wrist, then tried to wash it off, leaving a faint blue stain.
“Where have you been?” Trapper asks, waving away the alarmed concierge and poking the button for the elevator.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Out.”
“Out where?”
I turn over my wrist to show the blue smudge. “Here, maybe. I don’t remember.”
His sigh is pure exasperation. “You changed your dress.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I finger the dark material. “Black suited my mood.”
We reach my floor, and I take out my keys, but before I unlock the door it’s wrenched open, Alex standing on the other side, mouth slack.
“Pieces!” he cries, hugging me tightly. His big blue eyes are wet with tears, his tousled brown hair even messier than normal. No matter how old we get, he’ll always look young to me, always be my little brother. “Where the hell have you been? Oh my God, did you hear? What’s happening? What’s going on?”
In response, Trapper reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded sheaf of papers. “Search warrant,” he replies.
Alex releases me. “A search warrant? For what?”
“Twenty million dollars, among other things.”
Alex pales. “What?”
“They’re saying dad stole money,” I tell him. “Maybe it’s sitting in his office in an envelope somewhere.”
“Start there,” Trapper says to the closest agent, who nods and pushes past me. Two more elevators open, and a flood of men and women in matching jackets and hats spill out.
“You can’t do this,” Alex says, though it seems pretty obvious that they can. They’re swift and efficient, filling boxes with books and computers and file folders. I see them take my phone, still sitting on the counter.
Trapper watches me, missing nothing.
Missing everything.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him.
“I’m not.”
“There’s a safe.”
“Reese!” Alex exclaims.
Trapper nods. “I know.”
“About the floor safe?”
Alex gawks at me. “Reese! Stop!”
“There’s nothing to hide, Alex. Everything they