Lesley, Claudia had learned at the bar, had two online personas: one for friends and family back home, and one she used for dating. Friends and family Lesley Swaine was the thirty-one-year-old Lesley smiling in her orange Hooters shorts, drinking beer on a blanket in Central Park, posing with the bull’s balls on Wall Street. Dating Leslee Lincoln was twenty-eight, wore black dresses and crossed her legs and drank champagne. Leslee Lincoln listed her occupation as “concierge, Southern Belle,” and Leslee Lincoln agreed to swipe right on Chad’s profile when they got up to the room. Less than five minutes later he responded.

hey Belle—lost in the big city?

“Can I write him back?” asked Claudia.

“Sure,” said Lesley, handing her the phone. “Is there anything in the fridge?”

“Take whatever you want,” said Claudia. “We can call room service, too.”

Lesley chose a mini white wine. She unscrewed the top and drained half the bottle in a single swallow.

Claudia typed: hopelessly!

Lesley offered the bottle to Claudia for a sip and Claudia took it. Why not? She almost felt like smiling. This was going to be so easy.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked Lesley. “Who is this guy?”

“We used to be friends and he got the wrong idea.”

Lesley drank more wine and nodded her head. Claudia felt understood so she told Lesley her idea; well, most of it. The part she needed to know.

“I know a guy who has ketamine,” Lesley said.

It was perfect. Claudia made her offer: “I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you get him to meet you at the bar, put some in his drink, and bring him up here.”

Lesley closed one eye and squinted at Claudia, assessing. She was drunk, but it occurred to Claudia that Lesley might be the kind of person who performed much of her life while drunk. Her mom’s cousin Allison was like that; wine with lunch and then never without a drink in her hand until bedtime. Years ago, on the Vineyard, she and Edie saw Allison throwing up in the bushes. They told their mother Cousin Allison was sick. She’s not sick, said Michelle. She’s drunk. Ali’s usually drunk. In five years she’ll be twenty years older. Her mom had been right. At barely forty-five, Allison’s face and legs were swollen. Last summer she fell in the house and sliced her arm on the broken wineglass she’d been holding. Claudia remembered Allison’s scream and the blood smeared on the floor. Nathan was the only one who had any idea what to do.

“Five thousand dollars,” said Lesley.

“Plus whatever the ketamine costs.”

“What’s the time line?”

“Soon as possible. I’ll give you half tomorrow. I’ll go to the bank first thing.”

“What happens after I get him up here?”

“You leave.”

“Then what happens?”

“I give you the rest of the money.”