She never could pinpoint what it was about the piece that captured the art world so suddenly, and she didn’t have time to think on it. Suddenly, Rainy’s sculpture was on the front page of the art section in the Times and interview requests began to pour in. Her first commission after she graduated was for the public library and was put directly in the vast lobby with a plaque with her name on it. Caught Up in Books is what she called it: a ten-foot tornado of books hurtling in every direction. It was a whirlwind of fame and acclaim that could never be attached to her real name or her face. She’d never allowed a photo of herself to be taken, in case he were to see it. What would he do after all these years if he saw her photo in some magazine? But still, she lived in fear, walking in the shadows in case he noticed her. How angry it made her on some days that she had to live her life both without her mother and constantly looking over her shoulder. But she wasn’t angry enough to not be scared.

24

Now

Rainy stared out the window at the gaudy lights and the silent desert beyond. Beside her, on the seat, sat her phone.

I’m going to kill her. You’d better come if you want to save her, the text had read.

She looked up at the cabdriver. “If you could drop me off a couple blocks away, I’d appreciate it.” She looked down at her hands as they shook in her lap, the chipped red nail polish reminding her of her mother.

A brief nod from the driver and the car veered sideways. It was too early for the city to be beautiful; Vegas was a moon child, and under the sun’s microscope, she looked like costume jewelry. Hands pressed between her knees, she stared at the Bellum, the crawl of it toward the sky. A vertical tomb.

Go to the Bellum Hotel. Wear dark leggings and a yoga top, no bra. Tight clothes with no pockets. I don’t want to have to pat you down.