I chew on the granola bar St. Clare pulled from his desk drawer and look out over the nightclub. It’s a great view. Still daytime, so the club isn’t exactly thriving. There are a few people at the bar, drinks in front of them, working their way through ribs or wings or whatever, but otherwise, it’s mostly staff going about their day and getting ready for tonight.

Maybe working in a bar could be fun? Less personal, probably, but more staff to shoot the shit with.

“What are you thinking about?”

I glance over at St. Clare’s voice. “What it would be like to work here.”

“You really think I’d hire you?”

“Why not?” It’s hard to keep the offense out of my voice. “I’m an excellent employee.”

“You literally just told me you made me shitty coffee this morning. On purpose.”

There my mouth goes getting ahead of myself again. “Maybe this would be a good time to take a vow of silence.”

“Is that something you’re capable of?” St. Clare’s eyes twinkle when I catch them.

“Probably.”

That twinkle passes to his mouth as it curls into a grin. “You couldn’t last five minutes.”

“Not true. I’ve gone whole days without talking to anyone.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Days?”

So maybe days is a stretch. Margot checks in with me too often for that.

“Shit. Margy.”

St. Clare blinks at me. “What?”

“I’m supposed to be grabbing Margot and Elle dinner tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I finally have money, and so now I’m trying to make up for everything they’ve done for me.”

“And you really think you should be spending any of that money?”

He has a good point. Unfortunately, it’s way too late for that. I haven’t gone wild, but between rent, overdue bills, and paying Elle back for the laptop, I’ve spent a tidy chunk of it. If you ask me, I’m putting the money to better use than the original owner did anyway.

Why would you pay to have someone offed when there are plenty of people struggling who you can give the money to? Rich people make me sad. Sure, I’m looked down on for not having a whole hell of a lot, but I’m happy, so shouldn’t that be the most important thing? When did it become some huge competition over who can be the most miserable and earn the most money?

“Perry?” he prompts.

“Yeah, I’ve already spent a bunch, so I don’t think it makes a difference how much more I spend.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Most of it.” Which is better than none of it. “Maybe if I go to Luther, own up to what I did, and then pay the money back, it’ll all go away.”

“You said you didn’t have all the money to pay back.”