“Let’s go check out your new digs,” he said, putting one arm around her shoulders and another around her mother’s. And then the man in the snakeskin boots led them into the Flatlands Women’s Correctional Facility, the place where her mother would be murdered.

4

Now

Lorraine had been her mama’s name; she’d taken it when she’d left—or rather, when she’d escaped that place—shortening it to Rainy. She’d taken her hair, as well, but that had not been by choice. The Ives women had hair so deeply black it reached toward blue. It grew straight and thick like a horsetail and she hated it, but because it reminded her of her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to cut it. Grant was always touching it, running his fingers through the strands until her eyes rolled with pleasure. It was heavy, and the most she could do to get it out of her face was wear it in a braid, which hung between her shoulder blades like a sword.

For breakfast, Rainy made fried eggs and toast. She lounged at the table in her robe, drinking her coffee and passing bits of crust to Shep, when Grant called.

“What’s on the schedule for you today?”

“Oh, you know, thought I’d fire up the gun and blow some metal.”

“I love it when you talk welding to me, baby.”

“You home tonight at the normal time?” She carried her plate to the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. She heard his hesitation and knew what was coming.

“Happy hour with the office.”

She didn’t mind, but he acted like he was doing something wrong whenever he went somewhere without her. Rainy knew he felt like that because she’d moved here for him, leaving her own social life behind. But the truth was that she was glad to leave it; none of those relationships had meant what Grant meant to her. She listened to him as she watched the yolk of her egg spread like paint across her plate.

“I figured since you had Viola’s baby shower tonight...”

Shit. Rainy almost dropped the plate. She’d forgotten, even after Braithe’s reminder last night. She put everything in the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water scramble the stains.

“You forgot about it, didn’t you?” Grant’s voice was teasing, but the reality was there; she was forgetful, too lost in her art to keep in touch with the real world.

“Yeah, I did. I better run to the store. So much for working today, huh?” She could hear the disappointment in her own voice. She was uncomfortably behind schedule on the hive—three weeks behind, if she were honest with herself.

“Baby, this is how it’s going to go down, are you listening?”