Chapter Five

Justine

L’OISEAU IS A five-star establishment on the most envied block of New York City, and part of me wants to set the entire place on fire.

Sofia said it wasn’t safe to go to Campbell’s apartment in Bay Terrace, but I wasn’t able to glean any information beyond that. Everything came through a series of texts to my burner phone after the FBI finished taking my statement, but when I tried to respond, the messages bounced right back, insisting no such number existed. So I had no choice but to take the reservation, then grit my teeth before handing the address over to Agent Ryan—just in case she wants to get in touch with me again.

Now I’m completely alone in a penthouse whose decorators tried to blend the aesthetics of Arts Décoratifs with stark American minimalism, only to fail on both fronts. The carved, blocky textures on pure white walls are dizzying and must be monstrous to clean, all while forbidding every piece of furniture from making contact lest it erode the pattern. The furniture itself is formless and black, priceless ornaments of stone and wood cruelly polished until they look like glossy plastic.

What do I even do with myself?

Going to sleep would be the sensible thing, but after hours of playing the simpering, oblivious widow, rest feels anathema. I need time to strip off the mask and scrub away the glue of every lie sticking to the back of my tongue, but I might do something ill-advised with a bathtub full of water. Everything I have access to is inside my suitcase from Chile, and the thought of washing this morning off my skin makes my gut twist.

Campbell. Goddamn it.

The tears I choked on during the entire flight force their way out, the first sob so intense it hurts, graceless as a hammer to the teeth. For a while, I don’t even bother wiping them away, letting salt and bile take their share. This doesn’t seem real, but the agony is undeniable, and a fresh surge of pain lances through me every time I dare to look at my phone.

Message cannot be sent.

“Fuck off,” I whisper.

My parents are a thirty-minute drive away, but going to see them in the middle of the night would mean a new lie, another layer of the cover to maintain. They’ve met Campbell, and if the FBI managed to connect the dots, my family would become leverage in an instant. I can’t let either of them know I’m back in the city yet, not after telling them I’d be spending the rest of the year out of the country and chasing my dreams.

The slow crawl of wrecked mascara is like someone scratching down my face. I duck into the bathroom and turn on the sink as hot as it can go, refusing to look into the mirror until every last bit of makeup is banished. When I finally dare, the woman staring back is haunted and wan, a scaffold held together with little more than desperate faith.

I’m a murderer too. Why didn’t they arrest me?

I knew a day like this might come. Campbell has been an assassin for almost seven years, killing people across the world. Even their meticulous methods leave room for error; death has a persistent stain. When I promised to help them kill La Rosa, it was with full awareness that our conspiracy carried the exact same penalty. I never touched his wife, but Giovanna was bound to become the primary suspect, a burden I passed on to her without hesitation.

But each time I pictured the worst-case scenario, Campbell and I were always together, a united front against whatever the world threw at us. They taught me how to resist interrogation, how to hide the signs of a lie, and a thousand other lessons to prepare me for the end of the line, no matter when or where it was drawn. Our security became second nature, the blame and the weight equally divided, exactly as I asked for.

Except I’m free. I’m standing in a room that costs two grand a night while Campbell is under arrest, enduring who knows what at the hands of the FBI. Sofia being with them is the only reason the last anchor for my sanity hasn’t slipped loose; she’s a vicious, incredible lawyer, and more than that, she’s our friend.

But friends are supposed to answer the fucking texts you send.

I dry off my face and strip, but facing the clothes thrown inside my suitcase nearly sends me back into the bathroom to puke. Countless grains of black sand hide between layers of cotton and linen, the silver silk camisole I bought to surprise Campbell with next week. Hints of vanilla and Santiago sun linger in every corner, clinging to the faint breath of the ocean, an echo of where we were, where we’re still supposed to be.

I haven’t really been by myself since I was still married to Richard. Not for more than a few hours, fleeting gaps here and there. If Campbell wasn’t around, Ulysse was—or my parents, Danny, Sofia. In one horrifying instance, Victor Marchand. Campbell never leaves me except for work or by force; suffering the second option makes the ache twice as strong.

Staring at the suitcase carves away pieces of my resolve with every passing second. I shove it closed and grab a robe from the closet instead, wrapping myself in a sheath of complimentary cashmere. It’s the first bit of luxury in this hotel that actually makes a dent in the tower of stress building up my spine, providing the wherewithal to fetch my phone and text Sofia’s actual number rather than the ghost haunting the burner line.

Contractually speaking, she’s my lawyer too. Our communication is privileged, and I need answers if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.

Could I get an update? That’s vague enough. No names, no subject.

I wait ten minutes, then twenty, staring at the line of blue across my screen and waiting for the checkmark to light up—a read receipt, the gray dots of a message in progress, anything. The only answer is blank, blank, blank.

Rage pierces me. A red voice rising from heart to throat, crushing my thoughts to spit out a defiant howl. I grip the screen hard enough that something pops: distant, meaningless. So distant I don’t care to look before throwing the phone across the room with every ounce of disdainful force in my body.

There’s no clean arc, lithe black evidence cutting through water and sinking to the bottom of the sea. My phone smashes through a rotund lamp, baring the pale clay under dark lacquer in countless pieces, then bounces off the frame of the mirror behind it before hitting the floor with a dull thud. The noise echoes between my ears, a clatter anyone could have heard.

God, what did I just do?

Shit.

I have to tiptoe around the mess to understand the full extent of the damage, sharp fragments crumbling atop a tangle of wires, the damn lightbulb somehow still shining in the middle, stinging at my eyes. Yanking the plug loose doesn’t fix anything, but I feel better for doing it, then take a deep breath and push what remains onto the carpet.

An accident. That’s what this has to be.

In an undeserved stroke of luck, my phone is intact, locked in its little case with nothing more than a faint film of grit on the screen. Once it’s extricated, I grab the tablet on the bedside table and tap the highlighted button for room service. Better to claim responsibility now than risk someone next door reporting the sound. Life has given me plenty of practice lying about this sort of thing; it just used to be about hiding damage to myself rather than a bad baroque take on a light fixture.

I know how to take a hit. I was ready for it the second Campbell leaned over to whisper a warning against my lips. But the blow landed elsewhere, and in the absence of the violence I’m accustomed to, liberty is a double-edged sword.

A gentle knock on the door jostles me to answer, fixing together my best apologetic smile. The maid waiting at the threshold is young and blonde, Elena inscribed on a little green tag above her breast.

“Did you need help with something, miss?” Her accent is somewhere around the former lines of the Eastern bloc: Romania or Bulgaria is my best guess. “I’m afraid most of the staff isn’t available at this hour.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I just…” After stepping back from the door, I gesture to the ruin on the carpet. “I was on the phone, not paying any attention. Elbowed the lamp and made an incredible mess.”

Elena’s mouth rounds in surprise, but she takes my excuse in stride a blink later. “Of course. I can take care of that for you.”

The best thing I can do is stay out of her way, even if guilt drags a hook through the bottom of my stomach while Elena sweeps up every little shard. She even vacuums the floor to catch wayward grains of clay, erasing the signs of my outburst without a hint of complaint.

While she’s occupied, I dig around in my purse to fetch the emergency cash zipped into the very bottom. The calculus between obvious bribe and exaggerated tip is an ethical quandary I’m not cogent enough to deal with, but even in this part of the city, a hundred dollars can get Elena something worthwhile.

“I’ll have a replacement sent in when we clean the room tomorrow,” she says absently, only to freeze in place when her eyes fall on the money between my fingertips. “Oh, miss. It’s fine. That’s too much.”

“Third shift is supposed to pay time and a half, isn’t it?” I ask.

Hesitation slips down her throat and tightens like a noose. “Supposed to, yes.”

But it doesn’t, not here. No matter the country of origin, America takes a lingering bite out of every immigrant who comes to its shores. Some bites are deeper than others, of course—my parents paid into the system for ten years to earn a transformation from “alien” to “citizen”—but the dollar runs your life when you’re unnaturalized. On certain days, it’s the only thing that makes you human.

Elena takes the money from me with a very soft breath of thanks. Halfway through the door with her cleaning supplies, she stops to say, “The kitchens aren’t open at this hour, but if you wanted something to drink, I could get it for you. This is a very big room for a woman spending the night alone.”

It is, isn’t it?

Nothing would stop me from working through an entire bottle of wine in solitude, which bolsters the instinct to refuse. Campbell avoids alcohol for self-control reasons, and I’ve come to do the same. Considering I’m already tearing things apart while stone cold sober, the last thing I need is to pour fuel on the fire.

“I would actually love a cup of tea, if that isn’t too much trouble,” I say.

For some reason, that makes her smile. “Sure thing. I’ll just be a moment.”

Elena returns with a full tray a few minutes later, waving off my gratitude before pulling the door shut. I carry the service out to the balcony, letting the whip of New York winter lash across my skin. The black assam she brought is hot enough to ward off the worst of the wind as I peer down over the city, counting lights and blocks on the way to Federal Plaza, where the Javits building stands in forty-one stories of government concrete. Campbell is in there, somewhere.

The first sip I take burns my tongue.

I swallow, then raise the cup to my lips again.