CHAPTER 11
Astrid
What a selfish, narcissistic, heartless bitch!
I’d almost forgotten why I broke up with her.
Thank god for that breath of fresh air. She refused to speak to me the entire car ride yesterday, just stared out the window wearing that stupid hood.
What a child. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see her again. Good riddance.
I trudge up the stairs after grabbing my mail.
Bill, spam, spam, letter, spam. I examine the letter closer.
You are hereby invited to the Saving the Children Gala.
We look forward to your attendance. Weird.
I wonder how I got on that mailing list. The mail joins the stack of papers to deal with on my entryway table.
Normally, I’m more on top of everything, but I haven’t been sleeping well.
It’s hard to care about bills when I’m perpetually exhausted.
Under my arm, I’m carrying the box with the ritual from Mimi. It’s time. I’m going to cut the cord. My altar is not nearly as elaborate as hers, but it works enough for me. I clear enough space for the two candles and sprinkle the herbs around.
“Pure intentions.” I chant aloud. “Pure intentions. Ridding my life of negative energy. Self-reflection.”
I visualize my apartment, devoid of her boxes, another woman in my bed.
Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that lovely? Deep breath.
I grab my matchbox and strike the stick along the starter.
Bum match. Am I going crazy? Are these some newfangled matches that don’t work like every other match in the known universe?
“Calmness,” I say, taking a deep breath despite my frustration. “Serenity, peace, independence.”
Once calm, I walk toward my kitchen to find a lighter. If this doesn’t get the job done, I’m asking Mimi for new candles. Lighter in hand, I kneel back in front of my small altar. I fumble with the trigger of the lighter. It’s a cheap lighter, sure, but has it always been this finicky?
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
Loud banging disturbs my meditation. It’s getting hard to have pure intentions in this apartment.
“Coming!” I call, trying the lighter one more time.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
The banging continues, faster and more urgent. Jesus, this better be important. I roll my eyes and open the door.
Sparks barges in, nearly bowling me over. She slams the door and engages the lock. She jumps onto my couch pulling my blinds shut. Her chest is heaving and sweat glistens on her forehead. She peeks underneath the blinds, eyes scanning frantically.
“I don’t think I was followed,” she sputters. “I didn’t park nearby. No one saw me. They couldn’t have followed. They couldn’t have.”
Understandably, I’m starting to get concerned.
“Now would be a great time for some context,” I demand.
“They found me.” She’s breathing so fast, I’m worried she’s going to pass out. Sparks puts a hand on her chest, and I bet she’s thinking the same thing. “They found me. I don’t know what to do. Jack never told me what to do!”
“What do you mean ‘they found you?’” And why do I care, I add in my head.
Sparks pulls a folded envelope out of her shorts pocket. The envelope was messily ripped. I look inside and find an invitation to the Saving the Children gala. Same as the one in my mailbox.
“Oh, I got the same one,” I say, unconcerned. “You just got on some weird mailing list. It happens.”
“Not to me,” she replies, hard stare in her eyes. “Not the day after we stumble onto a secret spy room inside some defunct research facility, not placed on the handlebars of my motorcycle, and most importantly, not addressed to Charlotte Jennings.”
What? I flip the envelope over. “Charlotte Jennings” is written in elaborate cursive along the front. Oh. Well. That’s not great.
“That’s creepy.” Not a very helpful response, but my mind has gone blank.
“Ya think?” Sparks says exasperated.
“Do you…” I think quickly, trying to offer a viable solution. “Do you want something to drink? Hot chocolate?” Crap, that wasn’t a good one.
“No, I don’t want a fucking hot chocolate!” Sparks yells.
“What do you want me to do?” I shrug with my arms out wide.
Sparks takes a deep breath, trying – and failing – to calm down. She snatches the letter from me and shoves it back in her pocket.
“I don’t know, I just… Nevermind. Forget it. I’m leaving. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the next train to… fuck, I don’t know, wherever.”
“Wait, wait, sit down.” Now I’m the one who’s frazzled. “Give me a second to process this.”
Ignoring the perfectly good couch, she plops down on the floor.
She holds her knees to her chest and starts softly crying into her arms. For a moment, I am overwhelmed with sympathy.
Her entire adult life, she was warned to stay anonymous, to be an enigma floating without a trace.
Then to get a letter addressed to a person you once were… that’s a lot.
“Shh, you’ll be okay.” I kneel next to her and stroke her hair, hoping my voice is more soothing than I feel.
“You want a drink, I'll put on the hot water.
You want to stay here tonight, I'll grab a pillow.
Need an escort home, someone to worry about you, or a phone to call Derek?
Whatever you need, I've got it. What would make you feel safe?”
“I don’t know,” she sniffles. I pass her a tissue and she blows her nose. “Do I take off? God, I’m so tired of running. I knew I shouldn’t have settled down. It makes leaving so much harder.”
“Then don’t.” I rub her back. “Face them. You have Derek and your team. You can fight this.”
“We don’t even know what this is.” She buries her head again.
“I know how to find out.”
The night of the gala arrives, and I’m still not certain Sparks is going to show.
She’s been a nervous wreck all week, throwing herself into running on the treadmill and sparring in the ring.
Of course, I haven’t been back to the compound, but I was able to convince her to give me her cell number.
We don’t text much, but I can read between the lines.
I don’t know what she told Derek, if anything.
That man really does hate me. I’m content to keep our interactions nonexistent, but I’m still bitter.
I used to be the one to make sure she made it home at night, to worry when she was out late and came home with new cuts and bruises.
Guess that’s someone else’s problem now. That’s fine, doesn’t bother me.
I’m standing in front of the hotel listed on the invite.
Other well-dressed attendees walk by, and I breathe a sigh of relief seeing I got the dress code right.
I’m wearing a navy dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline landing right below my collarbone.
Instead of my standard ponytail, I’ve twisted my hair into a low bun.
My skirt swishes in a satisfying way as I walk, though it does little to assuage my pacing.
If she doesn’t show soon, we’re going to be late.
Where are you?! I shoot off a text, grumbling to myself.
Here.
I look up as a taxi pulls into the circular driveway.
A long, toned leg steps out, followed by a woman in a stunning emerald green halter dress.
The dress hugs her curves with a slit high enough to raise a few eyebrows, especially with the black garter sitting on her thigh.
She turns to thank the driver, and her smooth skin is complimented by her backless dress swooping down to her waist. Sparks shuts the door and catches my eye as I try to catch my breath. Goddamn.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she apologizes. “I couldn’t find the knife I wanted.”
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“Don’t worry.” She pats my shoulder. “I found it.”
“Why do you have a knife?” I whisper under my breath. She looks at me, bewildered.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?” She hisses.
“Why would I?” I will never understand this woman.
“You are unbelievable.” She rolls her eyes as we enter the hotel. I try not to scoff out loud. I’m not sure if I succeed.
Hotel staff direct us toward the ballroom.
Grand streamers decorate the vaulted ceilings as posters of happy children are scattered on easels along the floor.
We walk along a silent auction with numerous items up for bid.
A weekend at a cabin in the Catskills, a private five-course meal cooked by a celebrity chef, tickets to an upcoming movie premiere.
All bids are already in the several thousands.
“This action is a bit steep for me,” I joke.
Sparks doesn’t laugh. Instead, she subtly scans the room, studying the movements of the crowd. Anytime someone gets close to her or me, she stares at them, prepared to act. I sigh at her dramatics.
A waiter walks by with tray-passed hors d’oeuvres, and I flag him down.
Oooh! Shrimp tartlets. I offer one to Sparks and she politely refuses.
I take one for myself and the waiter continues on.
The two of us silently meander through the crowd.
I enjoy my tartlet and later a small piece of bruschetta.
Sparks abstains from that as well. It isn’t until I accept a flute of champagne that she says something.
“Are you really going to drink right now?” She smiles as she speaks out of the side of her mouth. Any passersby would have no idea she’s being such a hypocrite.
“You’re one to talk.” I copy her smile and give her a mock toast before sipping my drink. “Besides, one isn’t going to hurt.”
“Haha, you’re so funny.” She shoots a cross glare at me, though her smile remains plastered on. “You can’t guarantee they didn’t spike the food.”
“If they did, I’d die happy.” I ponder for a moment. “And then you’d be right, so you’d also be happy. Win-win.”
Her smile falls, revealing a stone-cold demeanor.
“You should be taking this more seriously.” Her voice is apathetic, but I can sense the hurt behind her criticism.