Chapter 6

"We will go to the bank first," Margaret says. "After that, you can head to the meeting."

She stands by the front door with her car keys clenched in her fist and her mouth pressed into a white line. She has been talking about the money since sunrise.

"Forget the bank," Richard snaps, yanking his tie straight in the hall mirror.

"A man worth billions just asked for our daughter by name. Do you really think I care about two thousand dollars right now?"

"I care about being robbed in my own house."

"Then be robbed tomorrow!"

Mila stands between them with her bag on her shoulder and for one dizzy second she wants to laugh. Her mother is fighting for two thousand dollars while her father is fighting hard to sell her. Neither of them has asked her how she feels about walking into that man's office.

Margaret turns to her.

"Listen to me. When you get there, say yes to everything he asks and when you come home, tell us every word he said."

"Every word," Richard adds. "What he wants, what he knows about this family and who he talks to. I want to know everything."

He glances at the hallway, lowers his voice and slips something small into her coat pocket. She feels the shape through the fabric before she looks to see that it is a voice recorder, no bigger than a lipstick.

"Leave it on his desk," he whispers. "or somewhere he won't notice."

A spy is all she is to him. Her throat tightens with the old, stupid ache, the one that still hopes someone will look at her and see a daughter but nobody does.

"And if you ruin this for us," Margaret says softly, "your clinic appointment moves to tomorrow morning. I'll make sure of it."

Mila's jaw locks so hard her teeth hurt. She wants to scream that she has already died once for these people and that there is nothing left for them to take.Instead, she lowers her eyes.

"I won't ruin it, Mother."

"Wait, you can't go like that."

Sophia floats down the staircase in a pale robe with something cream colored draped over her arm.

"Mr. Wendell will take one look at that gray rag and think we can't afford better," she says warmly. "Take my silk blouse. Just be careful with it, it's my favorite."

She presses it into Mila's hands and squeezes her fingers.

"Good luck, sister."

Mila smiles back but she does not put it on. Through the front window, a long black car drives into the curb and stops with a soft hum. A driver in a dark suit steps out, opens the rear door and waits with his hands folded, like he has all the time in the world.

Richard nearly trips over the rug. "That's Wendell's car."

"Oh, goodness." Margaret is already smoothing her hair. "The neighbors are watching. Mila, stand up straight."

Sophia has gone very still at the foot of the stairs. Her smile is still there, but it has gone thin and stiff, like a mask held on with pins.

She did not expect them to send a car for me, Mila realizes. She wanted me on the bus, sweating, late and sewn into a blouse that would split in front of him.

Mila walks out the door with her head high.

"Miss Collins," the driver says, and bows his head. "Mr. Wendell asked that you not be late."

The leather seat is cool and smells faintly of cedar. The city slides past tinted glass, and the driver does not say another word.

Mila opens her bag, takes out the blouse and looks at it for a long time. Under the left arm, hidden in the seam, is a clean, thin cut. It would hold for a minute, maybe two. It would split the moment she lifted her hand to shake his.

She folds it neatly and tucks it under the seat.

Nice try, Sophia.

Her second phone buzzes in the lining of her coat, the cheap black one she keeps for Nova. She slides it out and keeps her eyes on the road, one thumb moving under the edge of her bag.

The message is from her broker, and it is short.

Someone is buying Kestrel Pay in large blocks. Not you. Harris Capital. Do you want to respond?

Mila's eyes narrow.

Aria Harris.

In her first life, Aria was the woman who bought up half the payment sector and sat on it until it made her richer than most countries. She also had a habit of smelling opportunity before anyone else did.

She's following Nova, Mila thinks. Which means she's already looking for me.

She types four words.

Hold. Do not sell.

Then she switches the phone off, slides it back into the lining and lets out a very slow breath.Her hand drifts to her coat pocket and finds the small plastic rectangle her father pressed there. She thinks of Richard in the mirror, whispering like a thief. She thinks of every dollar he would sell her for.

She does not throw the recorder away as she decides it might be useful.