“I look out for people who do good work,” he said, calling over his shoulder rather than stopping to talk. “I really will do my best.”

Philip traversed the kitchen, clearing it in seconds with his long-legged stride. Tonya heard the door open. He stood beside it, a doorman booting her from the club.

She thanked him anyway as she headed out into the cold. The door shut behind her, urging her to keep moving forward, to ignore the tears of humiliation building behind her eyes. Again, her shoes crunched on the pavement, as if someone had spread salt by the door.

Instead of examining her feet, Tonya approached the dumpster, curious as to the source of all the glass. One of the cooks might have broken something—perhaps an item more expensive than the glasses she’d destroyed.

The grit beneath her work loafers seemed to disappear as she drew closer. She could feel the regular rough texture of the road. The sound effects stopped.

Suddenly, her foot rolled atop something cylindrical. She hopped back, expecting to see a massive shard, perhaps the stem of a wineglass. Instead, inches from her shoes lay something that didn’t belong yet was immediately recognizable—at least to Tonya. A girl didn’t grow up on a farm without knowing what a spent shell looked like. And there, at her feet, lay the unmistakable copper casing of a thirty-eight-millimeter bullet.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IMANI

Something was burning. As Imani emerged from the shower, she noticed a haze beyond the reach of any evaporating steam. It hovered in the sunlight seeping through her bedroom window, a fog perfumed with the unmistakable notes of smoke, flame, and a pungent mystery odor belonging to the thing being scalded.

Imani squeezed the excess water from her hair and grabbed her robe. She tied it while hurrying downstairs, shame fueling her speed. Vivienne had to be making breakfast. Not only had her daughter taken care of Ava the prior night, but she was also preparing a meal for the entire family, including her scattered, oversleeping mother.

“Vivi, honey?” she called out. “Sweetheart, you got up early, huh?”

“Usual time,” Philip called over his shoulder before returning his attention to the task at hand. He stood in front of their range oven, the top of his head nearly level with the hood dangling from the ceiling. Imani realized that he hadn’t flipped on the overhead fan, hence why she’d smelled the cooking instead of heard it.

Seeing her husband at home should have brought relief. But it didn’t. When she’d woken without him, she’d assumed that all the talk of closing Banque Gauche had been little more than dramatics on Philip’s part to excuse his prior absence. But his broad body crammed into her cooking corner meant that he hadn’t been manipulating her. He wasn’t working. Things were just as dire as he’d claimed. They might really lose their home.