We all live in our own individual hell. Some of us are just better at dealing with it.

I turn back to the clothes. Travis’s tastes are . . . well, they’re different from his wife’s, but if I look like I’m dressing for him, she will become suspicious. Plus she’ll be reminded that in every way that counts I really work for her husband, not her.

I don’t want to remind Jessica of that. Later, maybe, but not today. So I opt for a suit I scored at a consignment store on the “right” side of town. The color is what fashionistas would call burnt umber, and what I call reddish brown. The jacket drapes in front (just like the matching sleeveless shirt meant to be worn beneath it) and it nips at the waist and flares at the hips. The skirt is fitted just enough, and the hem hits the knee. Both Audrey and Jessica would approve. I’m sure Travis will appreciate it enough too.

I dress, apply my makeup, and then stare into the full-length mirror. I cleaned the glass less than a week ago, but there is already a thin layer of dust on it and a few smudges that give my reflection a slightly hazy and warped quality. Still, I can see the rewards of my efforts. I’ve pulled back my hair into a tight, low bun, not all that dissimilar from how Jessica wears hers. The heels are sort of Mary Jane style.

Cocking my head slightly, I study myself some more. “Is this me?” I ask aloud. For a second I feel the stab of anxiety. I’ve played so many parts . . . at what point does my real self disappear? I look down at my newly manicured fingernails. Not a single chip there.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper.

And it’s true. Who the hell cares who I was or who I am underneath all the polish and costumes? Who cares who I’m going to be when this is all over? My own life hasn’t meant much for some time. It didn’t mean much to the various foster families I boarded with, it didn’t matter to the people who locked up my mom, it never meant anything to my father, whoever the hell he is, and at a certain point it stopped meaning much to me. The thing that motivates me to get out of bed every day is revenge. I educated myself for the sake of revenge. I studied fashion, Shakespeare, tennis, finance, politics, commerce, art, and law—all for the sake of revenge. If it wasn’t for revenge, I wouldn’t have even bothered to do my nails. I wouldn’t bother to eat. I might have killed myself, but even that seemed like a wasted effort. Without revenge, my death would be as meaningless as my life. Which raises the question . . .

What happens when it’s over?