If you could go back and change a single moment in your past, what would it be? The most embarrassing moment of your childhood? The second you said fine, I don’t love you anymore, let’s call it quits? Perhaps a missed opportunity. That guy you passed on the street, the one who caught your eye. Maybe he smiled. Would you use your chance to go back and talk to him? Introduce yourself? Perhaps offer to buy him a drink in a bar? Maybe you’d take back a cruel string of words. Maybe you’d say something you left unspoken.

Personally, I’d go back to the day shortly after my twenty-seventh birthday, when my best friend, Thalia Prestwick, shoved a brown manila folder into my hand, telling me she knew how I could make some easy money. I would slide that damn thing back at her across the café table as quick as you like, and I would get the hell out of there. I’d never step foot into the towering pillar of glass on Park Avenue. I’d never have the attention of an entire city focused solely on me. Things would turn out very differently for me if I could go back and change that moment in time.

Instead, when Thalia hands me the manila folder in the Williamsburg café on a balmy, almost-springlike Thursday afternoon in April, I merely arch an eyebrow at the thing, and say, “What do you mean, extra money? I don’t need another job, Thalia. I barely have enough time to study as it is.”

“This isn’t a job. Well, it is,” she follows up. “But not a real one. You play chess, right?”

I frown at my friend. “Not since high school.”

“I’m sure they haven’t changed the rules in the past seven years, Bee. And anyway, you don’t need to be good. You just have to be able to make conversation.” Thalia’s brunette hair is neatly brushed and immaculately braided, unlike my own crazy auburn mane. She reaches across the table, taking a strand of my hair in between her fingers, studying it closely. “And you’re not a blonde. That’s a huge help.”

“I know plenty of excellent chess players who are blonde,” I say, swatting her hand away. “That’s a terrible stereotype.”

“No. I mean, the guy who’s looking for someone to play with has something against blondes. I’m not saying blonde women are too stupid to pl—” She rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Just listen.” She taps the folder with an expertly manicured index finger. “I’ve been running a little side line recently. I’ve been expanding on the whole Blizzard Buddy thing.” I’m about to ask her what the hell a Blizzard Buddy is, but she must see the question forming on my lips. She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Blizzard Buddies are people who hang out with other people during storms. They come over to your place and eat pizza and drink beer while a snowstorm rolls across the city, and then they go home afterwards. No harm. No foul. And no funny business,” she stresses.

“People pay other people to hang out with them in New York? That sounds dangerous, Thalia. Tell me you haven’t been doing that?”

“Of course I have.” She shrugs a shoulder, taking a drink from her coffee cup. “The money’s good. And besides, I like meeting new people.”

“Who needs to pay someone to come hang out with them? Jesus. Do I need to remind you how crazy people are in this town?”

My friend tuts disapprovingly, tapping her finger against the folder again. “All of these men and women are thoroughly investigated before anyone goes over to their places. They have to provide a million forms of ID, have psychometric tests, and also undergo a criminal record check, girl. It’s safe as houses.”

Houses fall down all the time. They get broken into. People are killed in their own damn beds on the regular. People are raped. Thalia steamrolls ahead, though, not giving me the opportunity to voice my concerns.

“It’s a couple of hours in the afternoon, three times a week, Bee. And for six grand, I think you can clear your schedule.”

I nearly spit my coffee across the table. “Six grand?” Like hell there’s no funny business if a guy’s willing to play six grand for a girl to go over to his place. I have to suppress my desire to reach over and slap Thalia upside the head. She can’t be this stupid. She just can’t. “You have plenty of money. Why the hell are you getting caught up in this kind of shit?”

Thalia doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Look, just because I have money doesn’t mean I can’t have a job. You’re beginning to sound like my mother. I provide a legitimate service to lonely investment bankers who work too much to have a social life. I get to hang out in nice apartments, drink fine wine and eat gourmet meals, and I get paid to do it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It was beer and pizza a minute ago.”

“Sometimes it’s Budweiser. Sometimes it’s Moët. I’m not fussy. Look, this isn’t just some guy, Bee. This guy is—”

“No. I’m not doing it, Thalia. I have too much on my plate already, and so do you. You realize we’re only months away from taking the bar exam, right? We’ve been studying for years for this moment. If I drop the ball now, it’ll all have been for nothing. I wanna be a lawyer, not a chess buddy for some socially awkward rich boy.”

Thalia winks. “Can’t be a lawyer if you can’t pay your tuition fees.”

She has a point there. Working part time at the library hasn’t exactly been bringing in a monster paycheck every week. I spent a while tutoring freshmen at the beginning of the year, but the pay was abysmal, and half the time the little shits didn’t even show up, let alone settle their bills. Thalia snaps off a piece of the biscotti we’re sharing and pops it into her mouth. “So what if this guy’s social skills aren’t the very best New York has to offer? He’s harmless. And he owns an entire floor of the Osiris Building on Park Avenue. The top floor. That’s the motherfucking penthouse, Beth,” she stresses, as if I might have misunderstood her. “Unless you wanna move into your brother’s dingy basement apartment and sleep on his couch, or worse, move back to Kansas,” she says, delicately wrinkling her nose. “This offer is too good to be true. You should be snatching this folder out of my hand and thanking the gods that this chess-playing weirdo has come along, Bee. Seriously.”

I eye the folder once more, my brows pulling together, holding my breath. Thalia leans across the table and touches her fingers to the scar on the right side of my temple, making a pensive hmming sound. “How long have you had that?” she asks.

I brush her hand away, scooting back into my chair, out of her reach. My heart is slamming around inside my chest cavity like a goddamn pinball. I can’t bear people pointing out my scar. Can’t bear them even looking at it, let alone touching it. “Always. Since I was a little kid.” I shake out my hair, making sure it’s covered up.

“Huh. I’ve never noticed it before. I know a guy,” my friend tells me nonchalantly. “He could have that fixed for you in no time. You’d never even know it was there to begin with.”

I feel sick to my stomach as I pick up Thalia’s file and slip it into my purse. She has no idea what she’s talking about. I’ll always know it’s there. The scar on the side of my head is small—barely visible, really. A tiny seven-millimetre line that only rears its ugly head when I get flushed and hot, or I scowl. It might as well be a mile wide and a mile deep, though. I see it every time I look in the mirror, and I’m transported back to the barn. I see my mother on the floor. I see that evil motherfucker with the snake tattoos groping around between her legs. And I feel the weight of my guilt crushing down on me from all sides, oppressive and inescapable. I should have helped her. I should have acted. I should have rescued her. I should have saved her.

“Hey! C’mon, girl. Stay with me!” Thalia snaps her fingers in front of my face. She’s laughing, her gaze locked on the file that’s now sticking out of my purse. “Don’t you even want to look inside it?” she asks.

“Oh…” I wasn’t even thinking just now. I picked up the file and put it away automatically, ready to get up and run if Thalia asked any further questions about my scar. I’ve inadvertently accepted her offer by collecting the file. Or at least that’s what she thinks. I should give it back to her right now, but honestly, I can do without the argument.

“I should at least tell you the guy’s name,” Thalia says, dumping a healthy stream of sugar into her refilled coffee. The guy’s name in the file could be Prince Fucking William. It could be Brad Pitt, and it wouldn’t make a difference. I don’t spend time with strange men. I don’t spend time with men, period. Not after what happened to my mom.

Thalia lets out a frustrated groan when I don’t play into her game. You’d think she’d be used to my total disinterest in guys by now. I’ve never told her about that day at the farm, though, so she doesn’t realize she’s wasting her breath. She looks like the cat that got the cream as she sends me a mischievous sideways glance.

“The guy’s name is Raph,” she says slowly. “Raphael North.”