Debbie was my closest friend. She was the only friend who kept in touch with me the two years I was stuck in prison at Bishop of the Holy Family. She was my roommate at Columbia, and she helped me find modeling gigs so I didn’t have to ask my mother for money before my trust fund matured.
Now she’s dead.
My stomach cramps, and I skip the omelets, sausage, assorted breads, and fruit waiting for us along with coffee and juice and head straight for the bar. I take the Mamont vodka out of the small refrigerator and pour two fingers, neat.
“Would you pour one for me, Blake?” My sister holds out her hand, and my eyes narrow.
“Me, too.” Trip lifts his chin, and I clamp my teeth over the snarky response on the tip of my tongue.
I’m not Trip’s bar wench, and I don’t think my sister should be drinking first thing in the morning. Still, we’ve all had a shock. We’re all suffering, and I’m the oldest. I pour them each a lowball vodka and try to figure out what the hell we do now.
Pressure tightens my temples and an ache twists between my shoulder blades. With Debbie gone, I have nothing in this town except my sister, as if Hana can be thought of as a functioning adult. I know she has her reasons, but we’ve got to make a change.
I’m adrift in a sea of soulless children, and it hurts, deep at the base of my ribcage, radiating through my stomach. I’m not sure I can pretend I’m strong enough this time. My nails are scratching on the bottom of the barrel.
“Has anyone told her mother?” I hand them their drinks and walk back to the bar to retrieve mine.
“Does anyone know where her mother is?” Trip snarks, and my eyebrow arches. “Anyway, I’m sure the authorities will find her. We can just let that play out as it will. I’m in no mood to tangle with Belinda Desayda-Rice right now.”
“Not since you slept with her?” Hana pushes a deep-red, manicured toe into his side, and he brushes her away.
“That was a year ago.”
His presence annoys me. “Shouldn’t you check on your own mother?”
“God, no. The last thing Cheryl needs is me poking my head in the middle of her latest threesome.”
Trip has lived on our couch for the last several months since he got kicked out of his Upper East Side apartment. He’s not the best influence on Hana, dabbling in drugs and gambling. I can ignore him, but my sister is always getting sucked into his schemes, and it’s cost me several times to keep it off the radar.
I’m about ready to order him to leave when my second unwelcome visitor bursts through the door.
“O, em, gee, Blake! Did she really throw herself off the balcony in nothing but her Louboutin slippers?” Natasha sweeps in, with her royal-blue Yeezy puffer coat wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.
“No.” I’m not letting that rumor take hold. “She was wearing her Versace robe.”
“Debbie was always such a drama queen.” Rainey, Natasha’s underage minion, scratches at my frayed nerves.
“I’m going to my room.” Hana stands, vodka in hand, and curls her nose at the two females. “It’s stuffy in here.”
“Perhaps you should try coffee for breakfast,” Natasha quips before turning her eyes on me. “How are you holding up, B?”
Exhaustion radiates in my bones, and I just want to be away from the city, away from these remoras. They attached themselves to my sister while I was in Connecticut, and I haven’t been able to get rid of them.
“I’m not great. None of it makes sense. I’m having a hard time believing it.”
“Do you think the rumor mill is right? Do you think–”
“No.” I shake my head, remembering my sister’s plaintive cry. Who would want to kill Debbie? “I know Debbie. She wasn’t mixed up in anything shady.”
“But how well do we truly know anyone anymore?”
I don’t like thinking that way. Debbie and I had been friends since forever, and while she was a playgirl, she was always in control.
Speaking of which, “Where’s Greg?”
Trip was Debbie’s plaything, but Greg was her actual boyfriend, at least that’s what they told everyone. He has yet to make an appearance.
Natasha waves her hand, plucking a strawberry off the breakfast cart. “Oh, you know Grisha. He’s not one for big family gatherings.”
“It’s not a family gathering. It’s a wake.” A bitter memory of a similar, horrible night flickers through my mind.
Of course Greg isn’t here. Like Trip, he doesn’t act like normal people, and it’s because he’s into shady dealings, always too smooth, always paying with cash.
Debbie was worried the last few days. She was always looking over her shoulder. If I say anything about the traffic in Milan or about the traffic anywhere, it’s a signal I need help. She’d had too much to drink the night she said it to me, and I dismissed it as nonsense while giving her a hug and reassuring her I’d always be there to help her.
I didn’t help her last night. Oh, God, she wasn’t mixed up in anything shady, was she?
I think back to the anonymous note left on my table at the bar. It was a QR code for a file server. I didn’t look, but it claimed to be a porn film starring Hana, and someone named Papi-O wanted twenty thousand dollars to keep it off the Internet.
Could the two events somehow be related? Shaking my head, I rub my fingers over my eyes. My sleep-deprived brain can’t connect the dots, and I’m probably just being paranoid.
“Will they even have a funeral?” Trip polishes off his vodka and lies back on the sofa as if he’ll nap. “Their family tradition is cremation.”
“Is that a tradition?” Rainy snorts a laugh.
“If they do, it’ll be at the family vault. How many people can even fit in the space?” Natasha is still picking off the breakfast cart.
Their voices are sandpaper on my skin. Their callous remarks are too cruel, too unfeeling. My breath grows shallow, and I can’t seem to inhale all the way. Am I having a panic attack? Shaking my head, I can't do that. I have to keep it together.
Hana was right. It’s stuffy from the cheap perfume and the hot air coming from people’s shitty mouths. I’ve had enough of their insincere concern–or total lack of concern. I need fresh air. I need to get out of this apartment.
Crossing the room, I pause at the small table in the foyer. A stack of mail waits to be opened, and right on top is a monogram I recognize. It’s the initials of a man I value as much as the father I lost seven years ago.
Taking the linen envelope from the stack, I slide my finger along the seam. He never calls. He doesn’t pressure me. He only suggests. Gently.
Dearest Blake,
On the occasion of my eightieth birthday, my greatest gift would be to have you and Hana come for a visit to our family home in Hamiltown. I’ve prepared rooms for you. You only need to arrive. Included are two train tickets and passage from the station to the house.
All my love,
Hugh
I study the elegant script on the crisp sheet of folded paper. Sure enough, paper tickets are tucked inside, like something out of an old movie.
Lifting my chin, I scan the room of high-fashion vampires with too much money, too much time, and no souls. “Why don’t you all go home?”