Chapter 2

2

I had nowhere to go.

When I was arrested seven years ago, I lived in that Brooklyn studio. Caspian had paid the deposit, and the lease was in his name. After I went to prison, the lease was terminated, and my things were thrown out.

I walked the streets of Manhattan for forty minutes.

It was January in New York, five degrees below zero, and the wind blowing from the Hudson River felt like razor blades on my face.

I found a McDonald’s and went inside to warm up. I washed my face in the bathroom and changed into a clean sweater I’d pulled from my canvas bag.

Then I called my father.

Arthur Vance, sixty-two, a retired high school teacher. After I went to prison seven years ago, he moved from Brooklyn to an old apartment building in Queens. He paid the rent with his pension.

The phone rang eight times before he answered.

“Elena?”

His voice was so much older than seven years ago. Hoarse, short of breath, like a bellows with a leak.

“Dad, I’m out.”

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then I heard a very soft sound―like he was crying, or maybe sighing.

“As long as you’re out… as long as you’re out…”

“Dad, where are you?”

“At home.”

“I’m coming to see you.”

“No, no. Elena, don’t come.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

I hung up the phone and called an Uber.

Forty minutes later, I stood in front of an old six-story apartment building in Queens.

The door opened.

The person who opened it wasn’t my father.

It was two men in black jackets.

“Who are you looking for?”

“My dad. Arthur Vance.”

One of them glanced back into the room.

“He’s not here.”

“I just spoke to him on the phone.”

“You heard wrong.”

He started to close the door.

I jammed my foot into the door frame.

“Move.”

The two of them put their hands on the door frame at the same time, pushing me back. The force wasn’t great, but it was firm.

“Ma’am, you’re not welcome here.”

“This is my home.”

“Mr. Vance is currently in the hospital. If you have any business, find him there.”

The hospital.

I pulled my foot back.

“Which hospital?”

The two of them exchanged a look.

“Long Island Jewish Medical Center.”

The door shut.

I stood in the hallway for thirty seconds, then went downstairs and called another car.

Long Island Jewish Medical Center was east of Queens, a twenty-minute drive.

I gave my father’s name at the front desk. The nurse checked the computer.

“Arthur Vance, Room 612, Cardiovascular Department.”

I took the elevator to the sixth floor.

The door to Room 612 was half-open. I pushed it open and went in.

My father was lying in the hospital bed. On the nightstand were two bottles of medicine, a cup of water, and an old cell phone.

He had lost so much weight. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones protruded, and the veins on the back of his hands were clearly visible. His hair had gone completely white.

“Elena…”

He saw me, and his eyes immediately reddened.

I walked over, sat by the bed, and took his hand. His hand was cold, his fingers thin like dried branches.

“Dad, why didn’t you tell me you were hospitalized?”

“Didn’t want to worry you. You’ve been through… enough inside.”

“Who paid the hospital bills?”

He didn’t answer.

“Dad.”

“Caspian Sterling’s people came.”

My hand froze.

“When?”

“Last month. They brought me to the hospital. They paid for the hospitalization and the surgery.”

“What did they want in return?”

My father turned his head to look out the window.

“Made me sign a document.”

“What document?”

“They said you might come looking for Caspian Sterling after you got out. They wanted me to advise you not to. If I didn’t sign…”

He didn’t continue.

“And if you didn’t sign?”

My father closed his eyes.

“They said the hospital bills would stop. The surgery would be canceled, too.”

I sat there, motionless.

A nurse pushed a cart down the hallway, the wheels making a rumbling sound against the floor.

Caspian Sterling.

He was using my father’s life to buy my silence.

I stood up and walked to the window. Outside was the parking lot, rows of cars covered in snow.

My phone vibrated.

It was Kevin Miller.

Seven years ago, when I started the company with Caspian, Kevin was the company’s IT operations manager. A thin, bespectacled guy who didn’t talk much and was always the last to leave. Before I went to prison, he was my only colleague besides Caspian.

“Elena?”

His voice was very low, as if he were hiding from someone.

“How do you have my number?”

“I… I’ve been following your case. I guessed you’d go to Caspian Sterling the day you got out. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. What do you need?”

There was a three-second silence on the other end.

“Elena, there are some things you should see.”

“What things?”

“About Caspian Sterling. About how he used you.”

“Where are you?”

“Downstairs at the company. Our old spot―the Korean restaurant we used to eat at for lunch before you got in trouble. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Tomorrow at noon. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

He hung up.

I stared at the call-ended screen.

Then I turned to look at my father.

He had fallen asleep. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling very slowly.

I tucked the blanket around him.

“Dad,” I said softly, “wait for me.”

Then I walked out of the hospital room.

At the end of the hallway, a man in a black suit was leaning against the wall, head down, looking at his phone.

Caspian Sterling’s man.

Watching me.