It occurs to me, as I sit in the plush backseat of the limo Jackson Ledecky hired to drive us from the city to Wyneck and back, that it makes sense, in its own twisted way, that Odilie’s group would be so nonchalant about my presence, even though I was so closely associated with her death.

Because these people, they’re used to twisted and sick. They’re good at forgetting, at hiding it underneath mounds of money, of burying decaying skeletons beneath pore-less skin, their rot like fertilizer, sprouting more and more green-eyed trees. It isn’t a new thought, but I’m enraptured by it as I gaze at Jackson and Page. She’s flung herself on top of him, across the limo from me, her legs dangling over his, nibbling at his jawbone. And he’s gnawing at her, too, his little teeth snagging on her earlobe, a tiny rodent in her flesh.

I’d looked Jackson up last night. Before he joined SNAPea, he’d worked for another logistics company that had eventually folded. Folded because of constant and numerous human rights violations, from warehouse workers fired for taking pee breaks to docked pay if a shipment went out even thirty minutes late. Human rights violations that Jackson Ledecky, at the nimble age of twenty-five, had been responsible for implementing and then exonerated of.

God, how this world turns. At least Page and I look good.

I’m wearing a black Bec + Bridge dress, short with mesh bands, low heels, my hair down, minimal makeup. I need to look understated tonight, to avoid too much attention, to work my magic and try to find more info on Tom. If I seem too intimidating, too sexy, I know this won’t work.

Page, on the other hand, has gone all out. She’s wearing a white gown, corseted and strapless, that hits right above the ankle and chunky sneakers, her hair high up on her head in a loose bun, a Bea Bongiasca necklace grazing her collarbone. Her eyes are smoky, her lips a pleasant pink; there’s no garish makeup in sight. I texted my old contact at The Carlyle and was able to slip her in. I hadn’t been there in well over a year obviously, but they snipped off my split ends, gave me a blowout. No one complained about my presence.