Chapter 1 No.1

The paper ticket in Serena's hand was damp. It had absorbed the sweat from her palm and the humidity of the Greyhound bus that smelled like stale urine and despair. She ran her thumb over the frayed edge of the paper. One way. No return. Just like the life she was leaving behind, or rather, the life she had meticulously fabricated just to leave it behind.

She looked down at her chest. The grey hoodie she wore was pilling, the fabric rough against her skin. She had bought it at Walmart three days ago, along with the canvas shoes that were already pinching her toes. She looked like trash. She smelled like the inside of a smoker's lung. She was perfect.

The bus hissed as it kneeled against the curb, the hydraulic sigh sounding like a dying animal. Through the grime-streaked window, she saw it. A sleek, black Mercedes idling among the rusted sedans and pickup trucks of the station pick-up zone. It looked like a shark swimming in a pool of minnows.

Frank Vance. Her uncle. Or at least, the man who signed the papers claiming he was.

Serena grabbed her duffel bag. It was light, mostly filled with crumpled newspaper to give it bulk, with only a few distinct items buried at the bottom. She stepped off the bus, letting her shoulders slump forward, curving her spine into the posture of someone who spent their life apologizing for existing.

Frank did not get out of the car. He did not unlock the door until she was standing right next to the passenger window, looking like a lost dog waiting for a scrap. The window rolled down two inches. Just enough for his eyes to rake over her, assessing the damage.

Get in the back, he said. His voice was flat. Don't touch anything with those hands until you wipe them.

She obeyed. She opened the back door and tossed her bag onto the floorboard, careful not to let the canvas scuff the beige leather. She slid into the seat, making herself small, pressing her knees together. The air conditioning in the car was set to a temperature that made the sweat on her neck turn instantly cold.

He didn't ask how she was. He didn't ask about her mother, or the funeral, or the debt. He just merged into traffic, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure she wasn't stealing the change from the center console.

They drove in silence for forty minutes, leaving the cracked pavement of the city limits for the manicured, emerald-green lawns of the Hamptons. The transition was violent. One minute, billboards for bail bonds; the next, wrought-iron gates that cost more than a kidney.

When they pulled into the driveway of the Vance estate, she saw her. Brenda. Her aunt. She was standing on the front porch, directing a team of movers who were hauling Louis Vuitton trunks out of the house. She looked frantic, her hands fluttering like nervous birds.

Frank parked the car. Get out, he said. And try not to speak unless someone asks you a question.

Serena climbed out, clutching her bag. Brenda stopped shouting at the movers long enough to look at her. Her nose wrinkled. It was a visceral reaction, instant and uncontrollable. She smelled the poverty on her.

Is this it? she asked Frank, pointing a manicured finger in Serena's direction.

Frank nodded. It's the best we could do on short notice.

Brenda walked down the steps, her heels clicking on the stone. She circled Serena, like a butcher inspecting a side of beef that had been left out in the sun too long.

She has lice, probably, Brenda said.

I don't, Serena whispered, letting her voice crack just enough to sound pathetic. I scrubbed with dish soap at the station.

Kayla appeared in the doorway then. She was wearing a silk robe that shimmered in the afternoon sun, holding a glass of green juice. She looked like a princess in a tower, if the tower was built on credit card debt and desperation. She looked down at Serena, her eyes cold and empty.

So this is the rat from the Rust Belt, Kayla said. She took a sip of her juice. Well, at least she's the right size. If she keeps her mouth shut, maybe they won't notice the lack of brain cells.

Frank ushered them all inside. The foyer was grand, filled with light, but the air was thick with tension. Serena could feel the panic radiating off them. They were desperate.

Listen to me, Serena, Frank said, turning to face her. He held out a stack of papers. You are going to do exactly what we tell you. You are going to sign these, and then you are going to save this family.

Serena took the papers. Her hands trembled. She made sure they saw the trembling. What... what is this?

You're getting married, Brenda said. She said it like she was sentencing her to death. To Julian Sterling.

Serena let the name hang in the air. She let her eyes widen, let the breath hitch in her throat. Julian Sterling. The name was a ghost story in the intelligence community. A tragedy. A monster.

But he... I heard he's crazy, she stammered. I heard he hurts people.

Brenda stepped closer, her perfume cloying and sweet. He is a monster, she hissed. He's a drooling, violent lunatic locked in the west wing of his daddy's mansion. And you are going to be his wife. Because if you don't, we lose everything. And if we lose everything, you go back to the trailer park and handle your mother's gambling sharks on your own.

Serena shrank back, clutching the papers to her chest. Please, she whispered. I don't want to die.

Kayla laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound. Better you than me, cousin. Here. She picked up a dress from a pile on the chair and threw it at Serena. It was old, the lace tearing at the hem. Wear this tomorrow. Try to look like a girl, not a scarecrow.

Dinner was served an hour later. They ate in the dining room, the clinking of silverware on china echoing through the halls. Serena was told to eat in the kitchen.

The maid, Maria, set a plate in front of her. A cold sandwich and a glass of tap water. She looked at Serena with pity in her dark eyes.

Eat, child, she said softly. You'll need the strength.

Serena gave her a watery, grateful smile. Thank you, ma'am.

She patted Serena's shoulder and left the room, closing the door behind her to block out the sound of the Vance family arguing over wine.

The moment the door clicked shut, the trembling in Serena's hands stopped.

She sat up straight. The slump in her spine vanished. Her eyes, which had been wide and fearful, narrowed into focused slits. She pushed the sandwich aside.

She reached down to her canvas shoe. With a quick, practiced movement, she pried up the inner sole. Beneath the cheap foam was a hollowed-out compartment. She pulled out a micro-SIM card.

She took the battered Nokia phone from her pocket-the one Frank had looked at with such disdain-and swapped the cards.

The screen flickered to life. A single line of code scrolled across the pixelated display.

Status?

Her fingers flew across the keypad.

Infiltration successful. The targets are hostile but incompetent. They believe the cover.

She hit send.

Upstairs, she heard a shriek. Kayla screaming about a broken nail or a wrong shade of polish.

Serena deleted the message, removed the SIM card, and placed it back in her shoe. She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It was dry and tasteless.

She looked out the kitchen window toward the Manhattan skyline glowing in the distance. They thought they were sending a lamb to the slaughter. They had no idea they were sending a wolf to hunt a beast.