“I’m not in the sex trade!” Nat cried. “I’m not doing anything wrong or dangerous.”

“Really?” Toni barked. “Then why do you have a gun?”

“How did you—?”

But Mara cut Nat off. “We packed up your shit and we found it.”

“I can explain. . . .”

But she couldn’t. How could she explain that Gabe’s driver, his hired muscle, had given her the gun because he cared about her safety? That Oleg had become her friend and confidant, their bond developing as he delivered her, like a precious package, to his employer? And how could she explain what she had with Gabe Turnmill? That she slept peacefully in Gabe’s Egyptian cotton sheets; that she knew how to work his high-end coffee machine; that she felt like she was home when she spent the night in his Upper East Side apartment. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them that it wasn’t about the money, she only accepted it to make him happy. Gabe liked to spoil her, and he wanted to ensure she was comfortable. So she said nothing.

“Even if you make a lot of money,” Toni said softly, “you’re still selling yourself.” Then she turned on her heel and left the room. Nat felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest as she watched her go.

“You can arrange to have someone pick up the boxes in the next few days,” Mara said, her tone triumphant. “But you need to leave now.”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night. Where am I supposed to go?”

“You’ve got money. Get a hotel,” Mara said, “Or I’m sure one of your clients will take you in.”

Rage filled Nat’s chest, made her throat burn and her eyes sting. She wanted to tell Mara that her judgment and condescension were anti-feminist, that women should support each other’s choices, even if they were controversial. But like all the people who had sneered and whispered when Nat and Gabe entered a restaurant or a bar, Mara was disgusted. And her roommate held all the power. There was nothing Nat could do but leave. Where would she go? Keltie and Ivan both lived in double rooms on campus and could not accommodate her. Ava was gone.

There was only one option.

28

The Real Estate Agent

The call came in at 11:20 P.M.: Nathan. Gabe wouldn’t have answered it, but Celeste had gone to bed early. She’d been tired lately, napping in the afternoons, abandoning him at ten for the comfort of their king-size bed. Violet was out; not at a party or a club like a normal teen. She was at a meeting to organize a protest outside a Jersey meatpacking plant (he’d seen the MEAT IS MURDER placard in the hallway). Since he was alone in the family room with his glass of Scotch, he decided to answer. Natalie was not the type of girl to call for no reason.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she began, “but my roommates threw me out.”