Chapter 4 4

The bathroom mirror was cracked down the middle, splitting Karen's reflection into two disjointed halves. One eye looked tired; the other looked dead.

She turned on the tap. The water sputtered, brown at first, then clear and freezing.

Karen took a deep breath. She reached for her right hand and began to peel the glove off her left.

She had to clean it. Infection in this damp basement was a death sentence.

The leather slid off.

She forced herself to look. Even after a year, it still made her stomach turn. Her left hand ended abruptly at the knuckle of the pinky finger. The skin was scarred, puckered and shiny, twisted like a knot of old rope.

Flashback.

The prison shower. The steam obscuring the cameras. Three women. The leader, a woman with a spiderweb tattoo on her neck, holding the rusty gardening shears.

"Word is, the King wants you to have a hard time, Princess," the woman had sneered. "And your brother missed a payment. So, we're collecting a reminder."

The crunch of bone.

Karen splashed freezing water onto her face, gasping. She scrubbed her skin until it was red. She dried the stump quickly, terrified Hoke might walk in, and pulled the black glove back on. She smoothed the leather over the empty space where her finger used to be.

"Mommy! Breakfast!" Hoke called from the main room.

He had made toast. It was burnt, and the milk was watered down to make it last longer, but to Karen, it was a feast.

"Eat up," she said, pushing her slice toward him. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat for the interview," Hoke insisted. He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. "Look, I drew a house for you."

Karen picked it up. It wasn't a child's scribble. It was a structured drawing of a skyscraper, using perspective that a five-year-old shouldn't understand.

"It has a garden on the roof," Hoke explained. "So you don't have to go to the park to see trees."

Karen's throat tightened. "It's beautiful, Hoke."

She got dressed in her only suit. It was from a thrift store, a little too big in the shoulders, but clean. She sprayed a little lavender water on her wrists to mask the smell of the damp apartment.

"Stay inside," she told Hoke, kneeling to look him in the eye. "Do not open the door for anyone. Not even the landlord. If there's an emergency, you call Mrs. Gorsky upstairs, okay?"

"I know, Mommy. I'm not a baby."

She left him sitting on the floor with his books. Books she had stolen from the library because she couldn't get a card without a valid ID.

First stop: Danny.

Danny lived in a loft above a failing auto repair shop in Queens. It was hot, smelling of oil and exhaust.

Karen climbed the metal stairs. She found Danny strapped to his chair, the dialysis machine humming rhythmically. He looked worse than last week. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken.

"Hey, kid," Danny wheezed.

"Hey." Karen sat on a crate beside him. She took his hand-her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.

"How's Hoke?"

"He's... smart. Too smart." Karen sighed. "Danny, I have an interview today. A small studio in SoHo. Your friend Mike set it up."

Danny squeezed her hand. "You're a genius, Karen. They'll see that. 'Dawn' was the best designer New York never knew."

"Dawn is dead," Karen said sharply. "I'm just Karen now. The ex-con."

"Isaiah paid for the machine, didn't he?" Danny said, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best money could buy. But I told you, I won't set foot in a King-funded clinic. I'd rather die in this garage than be another one of his charities."

"Don't let them break you," Danny whispered, his breath catching. "We survived the King. We can survive this."

Karen left the garage feeling heavy. She took the subway into Manhattan. The car was crowded. Bodies pressed against bodies. She kept her left hand shoved deep in her pocket.

Above the heads of the commuters, a digital screen played the news.

Isaiah King unveils plans for the new 'Villarreal Tower'. A tribute to his late fiancée.

There he was. On the screen. He looked older. Harder. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes like flint. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Karen would earn in a lifetime.

"He's so handsome," a woman next to Karen sighed. "Tragic, though. Losing his baby mama like that."

Karen pulled her hat down low. She couldn't breathe.

She arrived at the studio in SoHo. It was a walk-up, cluttered with fabric samples and half-finished mannequins. The owner, a man named Mr. Henderson, was sweaty and overweight.

He looked at her portfolio. He looked at her sketch. His eyes lit up.

"This is... this is incredible," he muttered. "The lines... the minimalism. It reminds me of that mysterious designer from a few years back. Dawn?"

"I have a style," Karen said neutrally.

Henderson looked at her resume. He frowned. "Gap in employment. Five years. Correctional Facility?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Manslaughter."

Henderson dropped the resume like it was burning. He leaned back, looking her up and down. The admiration in his eyes shifted to something sleazy.

"Well," he said, licking his lips. "It's a liability. Hiring a felon. Clients don't like it."

"I can work from home. I don't need to meet clients. Just look at the designs."

Henderson stood up. He walked around the desk. He stood too close to her. She could smell his stale coffee breath.

"I could take a risk," he said, lowering his voice. "But you'd have to make it worth my while. A pretty woman like you... surely you learned how to please men in prison?"

He reached out to touch her waist.

Karen slapped his hand away. The sound was loud in the small room.

"My hand is for drawing," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "Not for touching pigs."

"Get out!" Henderson yelled, his face turning purple. "You ungrateful bitch! You're a murderer! Nobody will hire you! You belong in the gutter!"

Karen turned and ran. She ran down the stairs, out into the street, the insults echoing in her ears.