Chapter 2 2

The room was freezing. It was essentially a glorified closet at the end of the hall, the one place in the manor where the central heating never seemed to reach. Eva dropped her bag on the narrow bed and went straight to the desk.

She pulled open the drawer where she kept her passport and emergency cash.

Empty.

Eva stared at the wood grain at the bottom of the drawer. A slow, hot anger began to spread from her stomach to her chest. She pulled the drawer out completely, checking the space behind it. Nothing.

The door behind her opened without a knock.

Dianne stood there. She tossed a bundle of black fabric onto the bed.

Wear this, she said. One of the girls called in sick. You are filling in.

Where is my passport? Eva asked. She didn't turn around.

Dianne inspected her fingernails. Safekeeping. Arthur agrees that you have been too flighty lately. You need to learn some responsibility. You get it back when the last guest leaves.

Eva turned slowly. The bundle on the bed was an old maid's uniform. It was polyester, cheap, and humiliating.

No, Eva said.

Dianne's eyes narrowed. Excuse me?

I said no.

Dianne took a step forward, her hand raising instinctively. It was a muscle memory for both of them.

Eva caught Dianne's wrist in mid-air.

Her grip was iron. Years of hauling equipment and tightening valves in the lab had given Eva hands that were stronger than they looked. She squeezed.

Dianne gasped, her eyes widening in shock. Let go of me.

Eva shoved her hand away. Dianne stumbled back, rubbing her wrist.

I am done playing your game, Dianne.

Eva picked up the uniform. She walked over to the desk, picked up a pair of shears she used for wire cutting, and drove the blades into the fabric. The sound of tearing polyester was loud in the small room. She shredded it until it was nothing but rags.

Dianne watched, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. You little bitch, she whispered.

Eva went to her closet. She pushed aside the few flannel shirts and pulled out a garment bag in the back. It was a black slip dress she had bought at a thrift store in the Village. It was simple, cut on the bias, with thin spaghetti straps.

She stripped off her coat and sweater and pulled the dress on. It fit her perfectly, skimming her body without clinging.

She turned to Dianne. I am going downstairs. And I am going to enjoy the party.

She walked past her stepmother, leaving the shredded uniform on the floor.

The main hall was crowded now. The noise level had risen to a roar of chatter and clinking glass. Eva moved through the crowd. She kept her head high. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, but her posture was so rigid, her expression so detached, that people moved out of her way.

Arthur Mcclain was standing near the fireplace, holding court with a group of bankers. When he saw Eva, his smile faltered. He looked like he had swallowed a lemon.

Isobel spotted her from across the room. She said something to the man next to her-Jimmy Noel, Baxter's nephew-and started walking toward Eva. She was holding a full glass of red wine.

Eva saw it coming. It was clumsy. Predictable.

As Isobel passed, she feigned a stumble. Her hip checked a passing waiter, and the wine in her glass launched forward.

Eva didn't gasp. She simply sidestepped. It was a smooth, calculated movement, like a boxer slipping a jab.

The wine splashed onto the Persian rug behind her.

Oops, Isobel shrieked. She pointed a finger at Eva. She pushed me! Did you see that? She pushed me!

The conversation in the immediate vicinity died. Heads turned.

Dianne materialized from the crowd, seizing the moment. Eva! How dare you? This is your sister's night!

Arthur marched over, his face purple. Apologize, he hissed at Eva. Now. Or so help me god, you will be on the street tonight.

Eva looked at the red stain on the carpet. Then she looked at the faces surrounding her. The sneers. The judgment. The absolute certainty that she was the villain in their perfect little world.

She reached into her small clutch. Her fingers touched the paper.

She pulled it out.

She stepped up to Arthur. He was a tall man, but in that moment, he seemed small. She took the folded paper and pressed it against the lapel of his tuxedo.

Apologize? Eva said softly. Her voice was calm, terrifyingly reasonable. I don't think so, Arthur.

She tapped the paper against his chest.

Open it.

Arthur swatted at her hand. Get that trash out of my face.

Look at the name, Eva said. Look at who your son-in-law is.

Something in her tone stopped him. The absolute lack of fear. He snatched the paper from her hand and unfolded it aggressively.

Dianne was still shouting something about a cleaning bill. Isobel was crying fake tears into a napkin.

Arthur looked at the document. He squinted. Then his eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood rushed from his face, leaving him a sickly shade of gray. Then, just as quickly, the red returned, darker this time.

His hands started to shake. The paper rattled.

Arthur looked up at Eva. His eyes were filled with a mixture of horror and sudden, blinding greed.

Where did you get this? he whispered.