The taxi pulled up to a dark alley in Tribeca. There was no sign, just a heavy steel door set into a brick wall covered in graffiti.
Calleigh paid the driver with cash she kept clipped inside her bra. She stepped out, the cool night air biting through her thin dress.
She walked to the door and knocked on the metal peephole. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
Morse code for 'G'. Ghost.
A slit in the door slid open. Eyes widened on the other side. The bolts slammed back, and the heavy door swung inward.
Nate Sterling stood there, looking out of place in a velvet tuxedo jacket. He was the owner of The Vault, the most exclusive speakeasy in the city, and one of the few people who knew Calleigh could speak.
Ghost? Nate whispered, scanning the alley behind her. Jesus, look at you. You're shaking.
Calleigh pushed past him, stumbling into the dim, smoky interior of the club. The air was thick with jazz and the scent of expensive cigars. She made a beeline for the bar.
She slammed her hand on the mahogany counter and held up one finger. Then she pointed to the top shelf.
Nate waved away the bartender. He grabbed a bottle of 30-year-old single malt scotch and poured a generous amount into a crystal tumbler.
Calleigh grabbed the glass with both hands. She downed it in one long swallow. The liquid burned all the way down, a fire to fight the ice in her veins. She slammed the glass down.
Another.
Nate poured. Slow down, Cal. What happened?
Calleigh pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She shoved it toward him.
Gerri is forcing surrogacy. Aria is the vessel. They have a fake psych eval to commit me.
Nate read the screen, his jaw tightening. That old witch. Do you want me to wipe the clinic's servers? I can have their records encrypted by morning.
Calleigh shook her head. She took the second drink, slower this time, but her hands were still trembling. It wouldn't matter. Gerri would just find another doctor.
She needed to numb the panic. The feeling of the walls closing in.
By the third drink, the edges of her vision began to soften. The jazz music, usually soothing, felt loud and discordant. A saxophone wailed, sounding like a scream.
Calleigh reached up to her neck. The pearl necklace she wore-a gift from Heinrich on their first anniversary-felt like a noose. It was heavy, choking her.
She fumbled with the clasp, her coordination failing. With a sudden jerk, she ripped it off. The clasp snapped.
She dangled the pearls over her empty glass.
Don't, Nate warned.
She dropped it. The necklace coiled into the bottom of the tumbler with a clink.
She stared at it. That was her life. Pretty, expensive, and drowning.
She began to sway. The music had a rhythm she couldn't ignore. She pushed off the bar stool, her movements loose and uncoordinated. She spun in a slow circle, her arms out.
The club was filled with the city's elite. Heads began to turn. Whispers started.
Is that...? No, it can't be.
Look at her. She's wasted.
A man at a nearby table raised his phone, the camera lens pointed squarely at her.
Nate saw it. He signaled to a massive bouncer in the corner. The bouncer moved instantly, intercepting the man and snatching the phone from his hand.
Nate grabbed Calleigh's arm. Cal, stop. You need to go home. This isn't safe.
Calleigh pulled away, stumbling. She laughed, a soundless, open-mouthed expression of hysteria. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup.
She was falling apart. The perfect puppet strings had been cut, and she was collapsing in a heap.
Nate cursed under his breath. He couldn't handle this. If the press got hold of her like this, she was done. Gerri would win.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the one number he swore he would never use.
It rang once.
Speak. The voice on the other end was deep, baritone, and terrifyingly calm.
It's Nate. At The Vault.
I know who you are. Why are you calling me?
Your 'asset' is here, Nate said, watching Calleigh try to pour herself another drink directly from the bottle. And she's about to self-destruct. Come get her, or I'm putting her in a cab to the police station.
There was a silence on the line so cold it could freeze water.
Lock the doors, Heinrich Lloyd said. I'm ten minutes away.
The line went dead.
Nate sighed and walked back to Calleigh. He gently took the bottle from her hand.
He's coming, Nate said softly.
Calleigh blinked up at him, her eyes glassy. Who?
The Ice King.
Calleigh flinched. She grabbed Nate's lapel, her fingers digging into the velvet. Take me... anywhere...
I can't, Cal. Nate looked sad. I can't protect you from him.
Ten minutes later, the sound of tires screeching in the alley penetrated the heavy walls.
The steel door banged open.
The atmosphere in the club shifted instantly. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Heinrich Lloyd stood in the doorway. He was wearing a black trench coat over a tuxedo, his hair slightly windblown. He looked like a dark god of vengeance.
He scanned the room, ignoring the stunned patrons. His eyes locked onto Calleigh, who was slumped over the bar, her head resting on her arms.
He started walking. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
