THE HOTEL LOBBY was super classy. Marble and mahogany and crystal and brass so shiny it hurt your eyes. A doorman in full uniform opened the door for me. He seemed to have a knowing look in his eye, and I wanted to both die of embarrassment and punch his eyeballs right out of his head. But I couldn’t blame him. I knew what I looked like. I didn’t look like the kind of girl who could afford this hotel, that was for damn sure. I looked like the kind of girl who was getting paid to be here.
How could Peyton have done this? She had everything. How could she give herself up for money, and, more importantly, why would she? She could have had any boy in the school—hell, any man in the city. Her family was loaded. It made no sense that she would choose the life of an escort.
I tried to walk as confidently as I could across the marble floor, weaving, wobbling, and praying that my heel didn’t slip and send me sprawling. I picked out Stefan before I even began looking for him.
Brigitte had given the perfect description. The man was at least four inches shorter than I was, and that was before my heels. I towered over him, getting a bird’s-eye view of his freckled scalp. He wore thick glasses with marbled plastic frames and a ratty polo shirt with frayed sleeves. His brown shoes curled up at the toes, giving him an elfin appearance. He was the kind of guy that no girl would look at twice. The way he beamed at me, I could tell he had spent plenty of lonely nights by himself. I would almost have felt sorry for him had Brigitte not told me that he had a wife and three kids at home. How lonely were they right now?
He closed the space across the lobby between us surprisingly fast.
“Prism?” he asked.
I nodded. Despite Brigitte’s desire that I use a tough name with the word Kill in it, I had decided to go with the one thing that definitely tied Peyton and me together—color. It helped me stay focused on what I had to do.
He reached over and let his hand fall the length of my arm. Ordinarily, any man who dared touch me like that at our first meeting would be taking home his spleen in a plastic bag, but I couldn’t do that to Stefan. He was paying for the right to touch me however he wanted. The thought made my stomach turn, and I had to curl my toes inside my shoes to keep my feet grounded. It’s just an arm, I reminded myself. He gets no farther than an arm.
“Aren’t you a fine addition?” he said. “Great skin.”
“Thank you,” I said. Creep. Jerk. Disgusting, nasty, creepy jerk.
He stared me down until I was beyond icked out, and then finally—thankfully—swept his arm out to one side. “I thought we would have dinner here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” I said, stepping around him, glad to be out from under his unsettling gaze and clammy hands.
We were seated immediately, even though the hotel restaurant was packed, with people spilling over into the bar area. Stefan clearly had some clout. I was starting to learn that money could buy a lot of things.
“You take many of the girls here?” I asked as the waiter scooted me in and placed my napkin on my lap.
Stefan’s face clouded over. “I’ve never been asked that question before,” he said.
“I was just curious. I’m new, so I don’t know what the other girls have done.”
His cloud turned into a deep frown. “Since you’re new, Prism, I will cut you some slack. But I must tell you it is very poor form to inquire about other women while on a date.” His tone was clipped, displeased. He looked like a mild-mannered, meek little guy, but I could see a dangerous side underneath. Or maybe you just want to see that, Nikki. Maybe you want the first guy you meet to be the one who hurt Peyton.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
He softened, barely. “That’s all right. Like I said, I’m willing to give you a break. Would you like an appetizer? How do you feel about shrimp cocktail? In truth, I don’t like it. But there’s something sexy about it, don’t you think?”
I felt his foot brush the side of my leg when he said that. The dumbass hadn’t even bothered to take his shoe off. I forced myself not to flinch under his touch. Instead, I wrapped my hand around the handle of the table knife, slid it off the table, and held it at my hip. It made me feel better to have it there, even if I would never use it.
“Shrimp cocktail is fine,” I said, trying to sound sweet.
He motioned for the waiter and ordered the shrimp, plus steaks for both of us. I wondered how I would ever gag down all this food, but reminded myself that I had to if I was going to get alone with him. I needed to be alone with him. Even if he wasn’t the guy who’d hurt Peyton, he might know who was.
The waiter left, and it was just the two of us. I had no idea how to make small talk with a guy who grossed me out and made me angry all at the same time, especially not with my mind in a totally different place.
What was Dru doing right now? Was he sitting by Peyton’s bedside? Was he talking to his lawyer? Was he battling his father? Was he regretting being with me the night before? What would he have thought about me now, a call girl getting ready to eat something sexy for a married guy who was paying to be with me?
“So, Prism,” Stefan said, cutting into my thoughts. “If you don’t mind my saying, your name doesn’t suit you very well.”
“No?”
He picked up the bread basket, plunked a roll on my plate, and took another for himself. He bit directly into it, spilling crumbs down the front of his shirt.
“No. Not nearly as well as the others. Why do you call yourself Prism, anyway? Seems like you could come up with something a little more creative. Prisms are colorful and shiny. They evoke a certain image in the mind of the person choosing.”
“I see. I didn’t think about that. I’ve never had to . . . choose.”
His eyebrows shot up, coming to a point beneath his nonexistent hairline. But then they relaxed into a devilish smile. “Snarky. You’re a hateful little vixen, aren’t you?”
I tore a piece off my bread, tried to act casual as I poked it in my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying with all my might to sound repentant. “I don’t mean to be. I guess I’m not very good at this yet.”
“Well, nobody said you had to be good at small talk.” He laughed, snorted, laughed some more. “I’m not paying to listen to you chitchat.” He took another large bite of his roll and leaned forward, laying his chest across the table.
My hand tightened around the knife handle. With little effort, I could drive it right into his leg under the table before he even realized it was missing.
He chuckled, chewing, looking way too much like a child. I imagined his short legs swinging back and forth under his chair. “Maybe I should rename you. Stormcloud. But I’m guessing you are a lot more than a little thunder, aren’t you, you sexy thing, you?”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Who talks to people like that? “You have no idea,” I said.
He swallowed, his face flushing a deep red, suddenly looking serious and swimmy. I’d seen that look before, on Jones. “You keep talking like that, and I’m going to skip dinner altogether,” he said.
Please do, I thought. But instead, I smiled demurely, nibbling on more bread. “But the best things come to those who wait,” I said. “A good storm has to build up, and the clouds haven’t even begun to roll in yet.”
“I think I like you after all,” Stefan said, just as our shrimp arrived. He pushed the plate toward me. “You first.”
I tucked the knife under my thigh, leaving the handle poking out for easy retrieval if it should come down to that. I picked up a shrimp and brought it to my lips. I didn’t care for them in any case, but especially after he’d called them sexy, my stomach clenched in on itself, trying to refuse entry.
Had Peyton done this? Had she felt her face burn as this disgusting little Stefan leered at her like she was only there for his pleasure? Had she gotten hateful and caused him to be gruff? Too gruff?
Dinner passed in a long, tormenting series of innuendos and waggling eyebrows. I pasted a smile on my face, acted like this was the best time I’d ever had, and prayed that the meal would get over with quickly so we could be alone, where I could get the information I needed and be on my way.
Finally, we were done. Stefan pushed away from the table, tossing his napkin onto his crème brûlée ramekin. “Bill my room,” he said curtly to the waiter, gazing at me instead of talking to him. It was different from the way Dru had dismissed the waiter at Lujo. When Dru had done it, it had been a powerful, sexy move. When Stefan did it, it was a rude display of inner powerlessness.
“Are you ready, my little dark rain cloud?” he asked.
“Of course.” I slid the knife into my purse and pushed my chair back. More than you know.
“You are about to see some extreme atmospheric pressure,” he said, coming up behind me. Sweat popped out on my forehead instantly, my body ready to hand this evil little jerk his ass in a doggie bag.
Instead, I played along, trying to flirt, which I didn’t do well under any circumstance. “Forecast says to take shelter. The system that’s moving in could be very dangerous.”
He laughed, a low, guilty laugh. “I like that,” he whispered. He pulled my chair out and stepped back so I could stand.
Don’t hit him, Nikki. Not here. Not now.
He didn’t even bother to hold the door open for me when we got to his room. He was too busy kicking off his shoes the moment the door opened. “Bathroom’s in there if you have any special props or anything. I didn’t request any, but you never know when someone’s going to give you a freebie,” he said. He unbuckled his belt and untucked his shirt. I was still standing by the door, disbelieving what I was seeing.
Was this how it always was?
A part of me wondered if maybe I should just turn around and go right back out the door, before things got too serious for me to handle.
He gave me a sarcastic look. “Hello? Let’s get on with this. I’m not paying for you to stand around looking stupid.”
“Sorry,” I said. I let the door snap closed behind me, a bumpy, silvery squiggle sound—a jolt of fear and a jolt of excitement all at once. It was do-or-die time. It wouldn’t get too serious, because I wouldn’t let it. This was my chance. Just don’t kill him, Nikki, I could hear Gunner saying in my ear. You can come close, though, if you want. “Nervous, I guess.”
“Well, get over it,” Stefan said, stretching back—still fully clothed, thank God—on the bed. “I don’t have time for first-timer jitters.” He closed his eyes, stretching his arms back behind his head. “You bring any Molly with you?”
“Sorry,” I said, stalking toward him, stepping out of my shoes as I approached him. I opened my purse and dropped it on the floor next to the bed.
“Should’ve requested it.” He let out a disappointed sigh. “What are you, seventeen?”
“Eighteen,” I corrected.
He shook his head slowly. “Girls these days. I hope my daughter has better morals than you.”
I tipped my head to one side, flirty, and gave him a patronizing smile. “I doubt that,” I said. “Not with a horrendous scumball like you for a dad.”
His head whipped up. “Hey, now,” he said, actually having the gall to sound offended. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that? Your boss is going to hear from me about this. I’m one of her best customers. I don’t pay to listen—”
I lunged for my purse and grabbed the knife, but I wasn’t quick enough. Stefan caught the movement and sprang into action.
“Hey, what do you . . . ,” he began, but he didn’t finish because he had reached across the bed and grabbed a fistful of my hair.
I let a squeal escape, knife clunking to the floor as both of my hands clawed at his. He pulled me across the bed with much more force than I ever would have guessed a guy his size could muster. I rolled across his body and landed on my back next to him, still struggling to free my hair from his grip. The reality that I was under his control began to seep in, and I flashed back to the feel of Gibson Talley’s hand over my mouth, arm around my neck, in the parking lot. Panic set in and wiped all my knowledge away in a haze of gray-black fear. I batted at his hands, legs pressed into the mattress, back arched, unsure how to move.
“Stupid bitch,” he wheezed, and before I could get my wits about me at all, he balled his fist and punched me below my right eye.
A flash of neon-green light, throbbing pain. A sting that suggested a cut of bone against thin skin. Nothing I hadn’t felt before. Sparring could sometimes get pretty tough.
Something about the feeling brought me back to my senses. I saw Gunner in my mind, warning me to be careful, but also reminding me that I knew what to do. Just do it.
With a grunt of rage, I backfisted Stefan right across the bridge of his nose, his glasses crunching into my knuckles, but I didn’t care. He howled, and, fast, I backfisted him a second time. This time the crunch was his nose itself, and my hand came back to me bloody.
I rolled, digging my forearm into his to force him to let go of my hair. He did, both hands flying to his gushing face, his words unintelligible as he shouted into his palms.
I didn’t want to touch him. Just the sight of him nauseated me. But the knife was on the floor and he was between me and it. I rolled across his body, hit the floor, picked up the knife, and in one fluid movement brought it to the base of his throat.
Just to show him that I didn’t appreciate having my hair pulled, I jammed my right knee down into his groin, putting all my weight on it and keeping it there. He coughed, long and throaty, and tried to grab at the knife, so I pinned his forearm to the bed with mine.
“Stop,” I said. “If you’re smart, you will just stop.”
“God,” he wailed. The blood poured from his nostrils down the sides of his face.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. It’s a broken nose,” I said. “But if you touch me with your free hand, this knife is going in.”
“What the—what the hell?” he yelled. I could see him consider swatting at me, so I pressed the knife harder into the skin of his neck. He sucked air, his hand going slack at his side. Sweat had joined the blood on his top lip, though it appeared his nose had stopped bleeding some. “Are you going to rob me now, is that it? I thought Hollywood Dreams was careful about white-trash criminals like you. Fine. My wallet is—”
“I don’t want your wallet,” I said. “I want information.”
He blinked, swallowed. “What kind of information?”
“Rainbow. I want information about Rainbow. Who hurt her?” I growled, gripping the knife so tight my hand hurt. “Was it you?”
“I don’t understand,” he blubbered, his stubbly neck jiggling. “Is this part of your shtick? I don’t like it.”
“This is not shtick,” I said, breathing heavily, half out of exertion and half out of adrenaline over finally getting to pin this freak down. “There is going to be no shtick. I’m not an escort, and this is the closest you will ever get to me.” Colors burst around me, taking on the fireworks quality of adrenaline but with a kaleidoscope of hues—gold, neon green, ragemonster red. Had I not been so in the moment, I might have been distracted, even dazzled, by them. “Someone hurt Rainbow, and I think you know who it was.”
“Which one? There were two,” he said.
“What do you mean there were two?”
“An older one and a younger one,” he said. “They looked like twins. Sisters, at least.”
Half sister, my brain nagged. Hadn’t I had the same thought not that long ago, that Luna could have been Peyton’s twin?
“The older one. The one who’s almost dead now,” I said.
He shook his head. A bead of sweat dripped down toward his ear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And that’s just a table knife.”
“You knew her. You’re a regular here, so you knew her. You were with her. Did you beat her up? Did you decide to play rough and go too far?” I dug the knife deeper into his neck, puckering the skin around the rounded tip. “And don’t you dare doubt my ability to pop your jugular with this table knife.”
“I never slept with her,” he said. “I never got the chance to.”
“I don’t believe you.” I pushed harder, and his face pinched with pain and rage. Three lambent flashes of green—pop, pop, pop. I blinked them away.
“The little bitch wouldn’t put out, okay? I tried, but she got all sloppy drunk and started in on some sob story about how she was supposed to be an actress and she refused to whore herself to get there. You’re hurting me!” I dug my knee into his groin.
“I’m trying to hurt you, you idiot. Keep talking.”
He made a face. “Jesus, you smoke, don’t you? I can smell it in your hair. I told them no smokers.”
I punched his ribs. He made a hissing noise. “I said keep talking.”
“Okay. Okay. I tried to at least get dinner out of the deal, but the bitch got into some daddy bullshit and then walked out on me. I asked for a refund, and they told me they’d send me someone else next time, on the house. I thought it was a joke, because the next time this other blond chick shows up, and she’s clearly trying to look exactly like the first one. She even sounds just like her. And she called herself Rainbow, like I wouldn’t notice the difference. But she had Molly at a discount, so I went with it. That’s all I know.”
“She sold you Molly?”
He swallowed miserably. “Could you let up on the knife? Usually I can get it from Brigitte, but Brigitte said they were out, and this new Rainbow chick showed up with it and was selling it at a good price. Every time I saw her after that, she sold it to me cheap. Said she had a big plan.”
Suddenly it all made sense. Double Rainbow, the photo had been titled. The other photo that depicted a drug deal with Luna’s hand. Peyton had known Luna was pretending to be her. She was trying to lead me to her.
But Stefan had said she had some sort of big plan. What was Luna’s big plan?
“Can you let up on the knife now, please?” he asked angrily.
I squinted at him. “And that’s all you know about her?”
He nodded as best he could without poking himself. “I swear.”
“Did she ever tell you her real name?”
He thought, his eyes roving wildly, and I could see panic budding in him again. I wasn’t sure how much longer I had until he began to fight me again. “Something that starts with a P. Paige? Peggy?”
“Peyton?” I interrupted.
“Yeah. That’s it.” He picked up his hand and waved it in the air weakly. “And she had a little charm on her pinkie finger.”
Luna. Yet she’d told him her name was Peyton. She looked and sounded just like her, used the same call name, and sold him stolen Molly. Was she trying to set up Peyton?
Stefan started to buck underneath me, and I had to push my weight into him harder than ever. “Stop moving.”
He let his head flop back onto the bed. “I’ve told you everything, okay? I bought a couple of whores and some Molly, but I didn’t beat anyone up.”
I shook my head in confusion. “Wait. You said the first Rainbow talked about daddy bullshit. What did you mean?”
“Jesus, you are relentless,” he hissed, a bead of spittle flying off his lips and landing on my chest. I resisted the urge to wipe it away. But the revulsion of it being there made me loosen my grip a little, giving him a chance to take a deep breath. “It apparently really bothered the poor little whore that Daddy is a client.”
Of course. The photo of the man coming through the front door of Hollywood Dreams. The well-shined shoe. I’d seen it before. On Bill Hollis the day he picked up Dru from the police station. No wonder his license plate said DREAMS. He was a regular. How did a man hire girls from the same place where his daughter worked as an escort? Or did he not know? I pulled the knife away from Stefan’s throat but kept my knee in his groin to keep him in place.
“I don’t know why, though,” he said, huffing and clawing at the space where the knife had just been. “With her mom being the madam. Where the hell did she think the two of them met?”
“Whoa, back up a minute,” I said. “What do you mean her mom being the madam here?”
He rolled his eyes. “Get your knee off my balls.”
“No.”
“Vanessa is Rainbow’s mom, you stupid bitch, now get off me!”
There was a knock at the door, and both of us looked toward it. I shook my head at him. “You make a noise and I’ll kill,” I whispered. I readjusted my grip on the knife to show I meant business, even though I was trembling, my insides feeling like liquid at the very thought of doing anything more than I’d already done.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” he whispered back, foam collecting on his teeth.
There was another knock, and we both froze.
“I’ll say you tried to rape me and it was self-defense,” I warned.
“I hired you. It’s not rape if I hired you.”
“Also illegal, dumbass,” I said. “Just be quiet and they’ll go aw—”
A third knock interrupted me. And then a familiar voice from the other side of the door. “Nikki? It’s Detective Martinez. You in there?”
Stefan’s eyes got big and alarmed. “You brought the fucking cops here?”
I shook my head, shushing him. “He must have followed me here.”
Holy Christ, what had I walked into?
“He followed you? Jesus, are you a cop? You have to tell me if I ask you directly, right?”
There was another knock.
“Technically, I never paid you,” Stefan said. “Nothing ever happened.”
I backed off him. “Okay,” I said, smoothing the front of my dress, which had gotten wrenched up into a wad during the scuffle. “No, I’m not a . . . Just shut up, would you?”
“Nikki? Answer the door.”
Stefan scrambled to his feet much faster than I ever would have guessed he could move. His broken glasses hung askew on his face, but he was too busy tucking in his polo and fumbling with his belt to notice. “You’re going to turn me in to the police. I should’ve known not to trust you. I saw it on you the moment you walked in. Prism, my ass. I have a family. A family, damn it.”
“Chill out,” I said. I picked up my purse and headed for the door, smoothing my hair and wiping the mist of blood off my chest on the way. “I’m going to take care of this. Trust me, if he was here with other cops, they would have busted in by now.”
I bent to pick up my shoes on the way to the door. I couldn’t even fathom putting them back on, especially not as sweaty as I was feeling at the moment.
“You’ll ruin my children’s lives,” Stefan was saying, as if he hadn’t heard me speak a word.
“Shut up,” I snapped, and he did.
I opened the door and stepped through it before Chris Martinez’s angled neck could see Stefan inside.
“What’s going on in there?” He scanned my face with worried eyes. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding. Did someone hit you?”
“Is this a good use of taxpayer money?” I pushed past him and headed toward the elevators.
“I asked you a question,” he said as he followed me down the quiet hotel hallway. “What happened in there? Are you okay?”
I turned and faced him. “Why?”
He cocked his head to one side. “Is that a real question?”
I turned my palms up, my shoes hanging off the fingertips of one hand. “Yeah, actually, it is. Why do you care so much? I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t done anything wrong. You said I was free to go, but you keep showing up in my life. From what I can tell, being followed by you isn’t exactly freedom. I didn’t realize the police were so into harassment.”
“I’m not following you as a cop. I’m following you as someone who is interested in seeing you not get killed.” He gestured toward Stefan’s door. “What was going on in there?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not true.” He got a serious look on his face, his cheeks even reddening a little bit. He scratched the back of his neck, nervous. I could practically smell the dark lemon radiating off him. “You haven’t—you’re not—”
I grinned. “Having sex? It’s okay, you can say it. And no, everything but the shoes stayed on.”
“I could arrest you. Prostitution is illegal in this state,” he said.
“Not a penny changed hands,” I said. “And no sex. So what about this was prostitution? I was just having a conversation, that’s all.”
He stepped closer to me, dropped his voice. “Then this was about Peyton Hollis, wasn’t it?” I didn’t answer. “Come on, Nikki, help me out here.”
“Miss Kill,” I reminded him. He planted his hands on his hips and lifted his head, tilting his chin to the ceiling in exasperation.
“Right.”
I pushed the elevator button with my free hand. “Yes,” I said. “It was.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what do you know?” He stepped toward me, whispering. How many times had Dad asked the police that very question over the years? What do you know, what do you know, what do you know? And never, not once, did they know anything.
“I don’t know who did it,” I said sourly.
He shifted, put his hands on his hips, and once again I noticed his badge. So very truth, justice, and the American way. He was a good cop. He deserved better than I was giving him.
So why was he following me? I thought the answer might have been the bite to his bottom lip outside the dojang. It might have been the way his voice quavered when he said he wouldn’t stand back and watch something happen to me.
“What did you do?” I asked.
He gave me a quizzical look.
“You’re a very by-the-book kind of guy, Detective Martinez. But you’re breaking all kinds of rules here. I think you’re hiding something. You keep letting me get by with stuff you shouldn’t.” I stepped closer to him. “This is personal, isn’t it? Tell me, Detective, is there a little bit of trouble in your golden past?”
His eyes narrowed, got serious. “We’re not talking about me,” he said.
I laughed, just as the elevator arrived and the doors opened. I took two more steps toward him, so close I could smell his aftershave. “Well, I’ll tell you what. You spill your secrets, and I’ll spill mine.” I tugged his collar to straighten it. He followed my fingers with his eyes, the intensity never fading. I leaned close to whisper in his ear. “In the meantime, step off.”
I turned and got into the elevator, leaving him in the hallway. Just as the doors began to slide shut, I pressed the button to keep them open. “Oh, and Detective?” His eyes flicked up to meet mine, but he didn’t say a word. “The guy in that room? Total john. Figure out who he’s buying from, and you’ll know some of what I know. You might even find your connection to Arrigo Basile.” The doors began to slide shut again. I waited until they were almost closed, smiled big, and waved. “You’re welcome.”
I WAS WAY too ramped up by my run-in with Stefan to go home. I had so many questions and so few answers. Peyton was an escort, but she didn’t want to be. Luna had been pretending to be her, had been selling Molly, and, judging from the photo I’d found in the suitcase, Peyton knew it. Brigitte had said Vanessa had been having “things, pharmaceutical enhancements” go missing from her office, and Stefan had been certain that Peyton’s mother was the madam of the business, which would mean Vanessa Hollis had a big secret nobody knew about. Peyton’s situation was starting to look a whole lot more complicated than just a few song lyrics and a haircut and tattoo.
Chris Martinez was busy at the hotel, which left me safe to go wherever I wanted without being tailed. I headed toward where I thought some of the answers I needed might be: Hollywood Dreams.
The front door had been left unlocked, so I walked right up the stairs, leaving the high heels in my car. To my surprise, the door to Hollywood Dreams was unlocked, too, but the front office was dark, the only light coming from Vanessa’s office. I crept inside and slowly made my way down the short hall. If I could hide under Brigitte’s desk, maybe I could wait out whoever was in here. But just as I tiptoed into the office, a file drawer slid closed with a bang. I saw movement by Brigitte’s desk. I gasped.
“Hello?” a voice said. I squinted into the darkness. It was Vanessa Hollis. “Who’s there?”
“Sorry,” I said, letting out a breathy laugh, feeling the tingle of adrenaline rush through my veins. “You startled me.”
She came around the desk, her blond hair a fluffy halo around her head. She wore painted-on leggings and a puffy-sleeved sweater that showed her midriff.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I recognize you, don’t I?”
“I don’t think so,” I lied, hoping she wouldn’t put it together that I’d been at the hospital. “I’m Prism. I just started here.”
“Prism? We have to do something about that. Sounds like a common hooker. Did Brigitte give you that name? I’ll have a chat with her.”
“No, I came up with it on my own,” I said. “Sorry. Maybe Stormcloud is better?” There was a part of me, though, that was incredulous that the owner of an escort service who also sold “pharmaceutical enhancements” to her clients was worried about one of her escorts having a “common hooker” name.
“Well, Brigitte is gone for the day, so why are you here, Prism?” Vanessa said. “I don’t have all the time in the world.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Of course,” I said, fantasizing for just a moment about roundhousing her to the back of the head. “I just forgot where I was supposed to meet Stefan tonight.”
Her eyes widened as she looked me up and down. “You have a date?”
I nodded, shifting, uncomfortable. “With Stefan.”
“You’re a bit of a mess for a date, wouldn’t you say, Prism?” Again she scanned me. “Your dress is ripped, your makeup is smeared, you’re bleeding. And where are your shoes?”
My hand automatically went to the cut under my eye. I’d tried to wipe myself up as best as I could while sitting in a dark car, but apparently I hadn’t done a great job of it. “The date’s later,” I said. “I’m going home to clean up first. I . . . fell.”
She gave me one last long stare. Her expression said she didn’t believe a word of what I was saying, but she checked her watch again and seemed to shake off her doubt. Apparently her plans were more important than trying to get the truth out of a new hire. “Brigitte should have written the address down for you,” she said.
“I lost it. Sorry.”
She blew out a gust of air and marched to Brigitte’s desk, acting very put-out. “We can’t hold your hand, you know,” she said. “You’ve got to learn to figure this stuff out for yourself. And present yourself like someone with class. Stefan is one of our best clients. If you didn’t show up, I would be very angry.”
“Understood,” I said.
She searched through several papers, scribbled the hotel address on a Post-it note, and handed it to me. “You’re late,” she said. “Lucky for you, Stefan is easygoing.” She hooked her finger in the neckline of my dress and tugged it downward. “A little word of advice, Prism. You can’t expect to get ahead in this world if you hide your assets. Show them off. Use them to your advantage. I don’t care if a man is sixteen or a hundred and sixteen, he will do things for a peek at a little skin. He will do just about anything if he thinks he can own it. I didn’t get my beach house in Monaco by wearing turtlenecks, if you get my drift.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said, resisting the urge to pull the neckline of my dress back up. Up close, Vanessa was a lot more calculated than she’d seemed in the hospital. “And sorry again.”
She waved me off, leafing through some papers and then heading to her office.
I waited until she sat at her desk, then slipped over, grabbed the keys off the hook on the file cabinet, and hurried out.
It was another hour before she left the office, toddling on impossibly high heels toward a parking garage nearby. I watched from my car, slouched low in the seat, so she didn’t see me.
I waited until the same SUV I’d seen at their house pulled out of the parking garage, and then got out of my car and ran across the street toward the nondescript office door, carrying the keys in my hand.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew it was in Vanessa’s office. I let myself in, using my phone flashlight instead of turning on the overhead light, just in case.
Unlike Brigitte’s desk, Vanessa’s was carefully organized, her keepsakes dusted and placed just so. The only paperwork on her desk were scraps filled with addresses and phone numbers, no names, nothing identifying. Just jumbles of oranges and pinks and blues and greens that made it hard for me to concentrate. I opened a desk drawer and found a cache of pens. Another desk drawer was completely empty. And a third was locked. Undoubtedly where she kept her Molly.
No photos of her family. Nothing that indicated she had a daughter in the hospital, or even a daughter at all. It was like a showroom office—the look of habitation without actual habitation.
There was a closet on the other side of the room, and in a last-ditch effort to find something, I went to it. It yawned open, a black chasm, and when I shone my light into it, I found a wardrobe of skimpy clothes, the kind that I was wearing right now. Some fetish costumes. A ton of shoes. And . . .
I paused, my light freezing on something black and smooth, tucked behind a pair of patent-leather boots. A locked box.
I reached inside and grabbed it, kneeling, and shone the light on it. Of course, it was locked, but this was an easy lock to break. I used a shoe to pry the lock open.
Inside were papers. Lease agreement for the address of the service, paid in cash. Bank account papers, written in a different language.
And, at the bottom, two birth certificates. I picked up the top one and studied it in the light of my phone.
Peyton Harlow Hollis. I ran my fingers over the raised seal and studied the details of her birth, immediately going back to the day Dad had brought home Mom’s death certificate.
Can I have a copy? I’d asked him.
Why?
I’d run my fingers over the raised seal, just as I was doing now. Because it’s the only way I’ll know it’s real, I’d said.
He’d never given me one. And it turned out I didn’t need it anyway. The reality of Mom’s death was proven to me over and over again, every time I needed her and she wasn’t there.
I dropped Peyton’s certificate back in the box and kept going. Beneath her certificate was Dru’s. It looked the same. But something about them was off. Something about the font didn’t match all the way through.
I dug through the box some more and found out why. There, beneath credit card statements from 2006, were two more birth certificates for Dru and Peyton. Only these had been doctored.
The names of the parents had been whited out.