The screech of tires announced Chloe's arrival. The beat-up Ford skidded to a halt on the shoulder, gravel spraying.
Chloe Vance jumped out before the engine even died. She took one look at Iris-soaked, muddy, shivering-and her face crumbled.
"Oh my god," Chloe breathed. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Iris's wet coat. "You look like a stray cat."
Iris melted. The tension holding her upright finally snapped. She leaned her entire weight against her friend. "Just drive. Anywhere."
They scrambled into the car. Chloe cranked the heat up to the maximum setting and threw a moth-eaten blanket over Iris's lap.
As the car merged onto the highway, heading toward the city, Chloe gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "I'm going to burn his house down. I swear to god, Iris."
"Don't waste the gas," Iris said, staring out the window at the gray blur of trees. "I just want a divorce."
"Do you have money?" Chloe asked gently.
Iris opened her canvas bag. She pulled out a small wallet. "About two hundred dollars in cash."
Chloe let out a long breath. "Okay. My place is a shoebox, but the couch is yours."
"I need a job," Iris said. "Immediately."
"Your degree is in interior design," Chloe said, glancing at her. "But you haven't worked in three years. The gap..."
"No design," Iris cut in. "Takes too long to get paid. I'm going to play piano."
Chloe blinked. "Piano? Your hands are insured for signing checks, not playing dive bars."
Iris looked down at her hands. They were long, slender, and deceptively strong. "These hands can do a lot more than you think."
They arrived at Chloe's apartment in Queens. It was a fourth-floor walk-up. The air inside smelled of stale takeout and cheap air freshener. It was cramped, messy, and loud.
Iris loved it.
She started clearing off the couch, folding the blanket neatly. Chloe handed her a mug of instant coffee. It tasted like burnt dirt, but it was hot.
Iris opened Chloe's laptop. As it booted up, she instinctively ran a diagnostic, her fingers flying across the keys in a series of commands Chloe didn't recognize. She cleared the cache, checked for spyware, and encrypted the connection before even opening a browser. It was a reflex she hadn't needed in years, but one she'd never forgotten. She went straight to Craigslist. Her eyes scanned the listings with predatory focus.
Urgent. Pianist needed. The Velvet Lounge. High-end clientele. Must be skilled.
The Velvet Lounge. A watering hole for Wall Street wolves. The tips would be good.
Iris dialed the number. She dropped her voice, making it sound huskier, older. She asked for an audition.
"Come now," the voice on the other end barked.
Iris went to the bathroom. She stripped off her wet clothes. She borrowed a black dress from Chloe's closet. It was tight, shorter than anything she had worn in the Hamptons.
She pulled her hair up into a severe bun. She applied makeup-dark eyeliner, red lips. Heavy. A mask.
When she walked out, Chloe whistled. "Whoa. Dark Iris activated."
"It's for survival," Iris said. Her eyes were cold in the mirror.
She walked out of the apartment and into the Queens night. The wind was still cold, but she didn't feel it. She was going to war.
