Chapter 7 7

Breann Carlson sat in her penthouse living room. The view of Central Park was obscured by the rain.

She held a glass of Pinot Noir in one hand and her phone in the other.

A photo appeared on the screen.

It was grainy, taken through a telephoto lens.

It showed Gannon's Maybach stopped on a street in Brooklyn. It showed a woman getting out.

Breann zoomed in.

She recognized the hoodie. She recognized the posture.

Ivana.

Breann's grip on the wine glass tightened. The stem snapped.

Red wine spilled over her white silk robe and onto the cream carpet. It looked like a gunshot wound.

She didn't flinch.

She dialed a number.

"Silas," she said. Her voice was calm, sweet.

"Hey, Bree," Silas Vance answered. He was Gannon's best friend, and Breann's useful idiot.

"I'm worried about Gannon," she said. She let a tremor enter her voice. "He... he's been acting strange. I think the stress of the wedding is getting to him."

"What happened?" Silas asked.

"I think... I think he went to see her. Ivana."

Silas was silent. "She's back?"

Breann sniffled. "Yes. I'm so scared, Silas. She hurt him so badly last time. If she's back for money..."

"Don't worry, Bree. I'll look into it. I won't let her near you guys."

"Thank you, Silas. You're the best."

She hung up.

Her face went blank. She dropped the broken glass onto the floor.

She typed a message to another number. An unlisted one.

Find out where she is staying. And find out if she brought the brat.

She looked at the photo of Ivana again.

"You should have stayed dead," she whispered.

Back in the motel room, Ivana peeled off her wet clothes. The room smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes. She leaned the black umbrella against the wall. It looked like an alien object in the shabby room.

She went into the bathroom. The tiles were cracked.

She turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out lukewarm.

She stepped in.

As she washed the city grime off her skin, she looked at her left arm.

On the inside of her wrist, extending up her forearm, was a scar.

It was jagged. Ugly.

It wasn't a clean cut. It was a tear.

The glass from the windshield had sliced her open as she dragged Gannon's unconscious body through the window of the burning car.

The doctors had stitched it up, but the nerves were damaged. Sometimes, when it rained, it ached.

Like tonight.

She traced the scar with her soapy finger.

Hampton had told Gannon that Ivana had fled the scene. That she had left him to die. That the paramedics found him alone.

Ivana had been in the second ambulance, drifting in and out of consciousness from blood loss. But Hampton had been thorough. He used her vulnerable status-her visa was expiring, and her sponsorship was tied to the company-to erase her presence. He paid off the EMTs, buried the police report, and deported her record before she even woke up from surgery. To the world, and to Gannon, she had simply vanished.

She turned off the water.

She dried herself with a scratchy towel.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened her laptop. It was an old model, heavy and slow.

She logged into Skype.

Mrs. Higgins answered.

Cohen was eating a bowl of oatmeal. He looked up and beamed.

"Mommy! Look! Bunny is eating too!"

He held up a tattered stuffed rabbit.

Ivana smiled. It hurt her face.

"Hi, baby. Is Bunny hungry?"

"Yes! He likes oats."

Ivana watched him. He had Gannon's nose. The exact slope.

Mrs. Higgins stepped into the frame. "He's been good. But we're almost out of the special lotion for his eczema."

"I know," Ivana said. "I'm working on it."

She hung up after five minutes. She couldn't bear to watch him any longer. Every second she wasn't with him felt like a failure.