Chapter 5
SLOANE
Istand in the reception area where I came in four days ago and turn on my phone.
It takes a moment to wake up and then the notifications start.
Texts, missed calls, voicemails, news alerts, Instagram — the screen fills faster than I can read it.
Most of it is about the sentencing. Headlines with my name in them.
Messages from friends that start with Oh my god and messages from acquaintances that start with just checking in which really means I want details.
I catch fragments — community service and Princess Pigpen.
Then a text from my friend Sita with a string of emojis and Sooo how's jail lol.
Or the fight that broke out over a bag of chips from the commissary that ended with three deputies and a lockdown. Or the fact that I watched a woman shave her legs with a disposable razor and no water and hand it to the next woman in line like it was nothing.
Or Tammy, the thin, toothless woman who talked at me every waking minute.
Every time I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep, she'd kick the side of my bunk and say "I know you're awake, Pigpen" until I gave up and answered whatever she wanted to know, which was everything, from whether rich people really had toilets that wash your ass for you to whether I knew anyone who could get her smack, because her usual guy had gone to state prison and she was going to need a new contact by Thursday.
I'm not ready for any of this, so I turn the phone off again and push the door open. The heat and the light hit me at the same time. Then the voices.
"Sloane! Over here!"
"Princess Pigpen! How was jail?"
"Sloane, any comment?"
There are photographers and a woman with a microphone and a few people holding phones, filming me. I haven't slept properly in four days, my hair is flat, my skin is dry, and I'm squinting into the sun in a wrinkled T-shirt. This is the photo that will be everywhere by lunchtime.
My father's Mercedes is in the parking lot. Black, tinted windows, engine running. I put my head down and walk. They follow me, shouting my name.
I quickly pull open the passenger door, get in, and slam it shut.
"Drive," I say.
Mom has a driver but Dad always drives himself.
He doesn't trust other people with cars, money, or decisions.
He's sixty-one, tall, and lean from playing tennis three times a week and eating the same grilled chicken salad for lunch every day.
Silver hair, clean-shaven, wearing a navy polo shirt.
His hands are clamped tightly on the steering wheel and his jaw is set.
Dad pulls out of the parking lot. "How was it?" he asks, without looking at me.
I laugh and it comes out sharp and humorless and a little unhinged. "Great, Dad. Really great. I had so much fun and made lots of friends."
He doesn't respond to this. He indicates and merges onto the road. I know he's not impressed with me, but still… I could really do with a little sympathy.
I open the window and stick my head out like a Labrador, breathing in fresh air.
Jail smells like a combination of things no one should have to catalog — industrial bleach that doesn't quite cover the stench of the toilets, reheated food that could be anything, body odor from women who refuse to shower, and an underlying note of something sweet and rotten.
On the third night, someone had a stomach problem so violent that three women moved their mattresses to the far end of the room and Tammy announced loudly that she'd "smelled better things in a dumpster behind Denny's.
" The smell didn't leave. It just became part of the air, like everything else in there.
"Thanks for driving me to — what's it called? Dustbin? Dirtville?" I wave a hand. "Whatever."
"Duster," he says. "And I'm not doing it out of kindness. I don't trust you to get there on your own without ending up on the news again."
I open my mouth to argue but I'm too tired to fight with a man who's never lost an argument in his life. "We need to stop by my place first," I say. "I have to pack."
"No need. Irina used our spare key and went over to your place to pack some things for you. Casual clothes, toiletries, whatever she thought you'd need. If there's anything else, I can send it next week."
Irina has been my parents' housekeeper since I was fourteen. She's lovely but I don't like the idea of her letting herself into my penthouse and deciding what I'll be wearing for the next two months. She has no taste and no idea what I need.
"I hope she at least packed my iPad and my laptop."
"I'm sure she did." Dad adjusts the rear-view mirror. "I'm going to need the Amex. The black one. And the Visa."
"What?" I blink. "Why?"
He's quiet as we pass a gas station, a strip mall, a billboard advertising personal injury lawyers. Then he says, "I've been looking at your spending."
"Dad —"
"Nineteen thousand dollars in May. Twenty-eight thousand in June — what on earth happened in June?"
"I went to Ibiza with —"
"I don't care. Twenty-eight thousand dollars in a month, Sloane. On what? It's not like you have a mortgage to pay."
I honestly have no idea so I keep quiet. Money moves through my hands like water and I don't track it because I've never had to. A dinner here, a purse there, a flight, a hotel, a round of drinks, another purse, or a pair of heels.
"Your mother and I have discussed it," he says, and whenever a sentence starts with that, it generally doesn't end well for me. "We think this will be a learning opportunity for you. You're twenty-eight. It's about time."
"A learning opportunity," I repeat.
"Two months without being able to buy your way out of every inconvenience. You'll be living like a normal person. We think it'll be good for you."
"I do live like a normal person."
He glances at me — very brief, but it communicates several paragraphs. "Sloane. You've never paid a bill in your life. You don't cook. You don't clean. You've never held a job for longer than four months."
"The gallery wasn't a good fit," I say, referring to my most recent attempt at adulting.
"Nothing's a good fit. Nothing has ever been a good fit. And that's partly our fault. Your mother and I gave you everything and maybe we shouldn't have. But we did, and now here we are."
"What exactly are you saying?" I ask.
"For the two months you're in Duster, no credit cards. No Amex and no emergency Visa. Nothing."
"Dad, you can't —"
"I can. They're on my account."
"But how am I supposed to — I need — what about —" I'm sputtering, which is something I never do.
"You won't need them," he says calmly. "I'm giving you a weekly allowance. Enough to cover food, essentials, anything reasonable. And the motel is paid for upfront, so you don't need to worry about that."
I turn to him. "Motel?"
"Yes. There's a motel in town. I've booked you a room."
"You've booked me a motel room. In Duster."
"You can't drive, Sloane, so you can't commute. You need to be near the sanctuary. The sanctuary is in Duster and Duster has one motel. It's not complicated."
"Have you seen this motel?" I ask, my voice rising. "Have you looked it up? Have you read a single review?"
"I don't need to read a review. It's a place to sleep. You'll be working all day and sleeping at night, and you won't be doing much else. You'll get five hundred dollars a week. That's a lot more than what most people have to spend."
I want to scream. I want to open the car door and roll out onto the highway. I want to rewind to the night of the wedding and put down the third glass of champagne and stay at the vineyard hotel and let Tyler have his bridesmaid and never, ever get in my car.
"Dad," I say, and I hate that my voice is shaking. "Please don't do this. I've just done four days in jail. I've been strip-searched. I haven't slept. My face is plastered all over the news. I am at my absolute lowest point and you're taking away my credit cards and putting me in a motel."
A truck passes going the other way and the Mercedes shudders slightly in its wake.
"Hand them over," he says.
"Dad —"
"Sloane."
I open my wallet and hand them to him. They're just credit cards but it feels like I'm handing over a vital organ.
He takes them and slips them into his shirt pocket. "Thank you."