The apartment smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage. Bronwyn dripped water onto the linoleum floor.
Chloe was sitting on the couch, chewing her fingernails. She jumped up when Bronwyn walked in.
"Where were you? I've been calling."
"I went to ask for help," Bronwyn said, shivering. "It didn't work."
Chloe looked down. "The landlord came by. He said if we don't pay the arrears by Tuesday, he's changing the locks."
Bronwyn closed her eyes. Eviction. Prison. Bankruptcy. The trifecta.
"And the lawyers... the ones I called... they want a fifty thousand retainer just to look at the case."
Bronwyn walked past Chloe into her bedroom. She pulled a Pelican case from under her bed, a case that held a portable, military-grade tissue scanner she'd acquired in a previous life. It was worth a fortune on the black market. She took out her burner phone and sent a single, encrypted text: "Scanner for sale. Need cash. Now."
An hour later, a courier met her in a back alley, handing her a thick envelope of cash in exchange for the case. Four hundred dollars. Enough for a trip, but not nearly enough for bail.
She walked over to the table and sat down. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It looked like a map of a country that didn't exist.
She pulled Chloe's laptop toward her. She opened a browser.
She typed: Kidney donation price black market.
Chloe gasped. She slammed the laptop shut. "Are you insane? That's illegal! You could die!"
"What else do I have to sell?" Bronwyn shouted, the dam breaking. "My dignity? Nobody wants it! My body? I'm worth nothing, Chloe! Nothing!"
They hugged each other, crying in the damp, dark living room.
When the tears ran out, Bronwyn felt a cold, hard resolve settle in her gut.
She had one card left. The card she swore she would never play.
She went into her bedroom. She knelt down and dragged a dusty box from under the bed.
Inside was a set of unmarked, non-reflective surgical scalpels made of a matte black ceramic composite. And a photo. A photo of a massive estate in Long Island. Tucked behind the photo was a tarnished silver locket, engraved with a crest. A serpent wrapped around a staff.
She was the bastard daughter of the Phelps dynasty. The secret Elsworth Phelps had paid her mother to keep hidden.
She put on a black dress. It was cheap, but it was clean.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.
"To hell," Bronwyn said. She put the scalpels in her purse. "Or heaven. Depends on who answers the door."
She called an Uber. Destination: The Hamptons.
The fare was $420. Almost every last dollar she had just made.
She got in the car. The rain beat against the roof like a drumroll for an execution.
