Could be she’s not all that interesting under the highlights and lip gloss. Who knows if she believes in luck. She’s never been rude to me, but she’s not particularly warm, either. Could be she’s just a Mrs. Potatohead: fully accessorized, hollow inside. One thing’s for certain. Somewhere along the line, someone told her she was special. Someone drove it home and made her believe it, so now she feels obligated to wear diamonds and those jeans that make her ass look amazing. Someone told her she was the only person who could fill an Elizabeth-shaped hole in the world. Said it until she believed it.

The kicker is, that person made it true. Even if I do spend more hours of the day with Mrs. Hart’s husband than she does, and even if I am the one who keeps his life on track, she’s the one who helps him tidy their beautiful home after a party, and I’m the one who probably only got invited so I’d stay on his good side. I’ll go home to an overdone one-bedroom apartment all alone, still thinking of him and what he thinks of me. That’s not the kind of woman I am. Usually am. This shouldn’t be me.

I stare at my glove box. Inside is the blood vial I found in Dr. Hart’s coat pocket last week when I took it to be laundered. The questionnaire, dated and signed by Nick Carpenter, is in there too. I wasn’t being nosy. I always empty the pockets before I drop off his lab coats, dumping out Tic Tacs or pen caps or paper scraps, whatever. Never found a blood sample before, though. Not before this. Grossed me out to keep it in the cup holder, so I threw it in the glove box. I didn’t exactly forget about it, but I didn’t have a plan for it either. Lately, though, it’s been on my mind. Gina is good at reminding me. I have no clue what that kid was doing there, what his blood was doing in Dr. Hart’s pocket and what it’s doing in my car now. All I know is that the blood was from that dead kid’s body, and Dr. Hart intended to hide it, so it feels like a powerful thing to have on hand. Just in case. And powerful feels good.

31.