Eighteen months later…

Thirteen hours before I get kidnapped, I go to work drunk.

It was supposed to be my day off. I’d been dreading it for a week. An entire Tuesday, all to myself. Hours with nothing to do but think.

Usually I spend my time off alone, organizing my already immaculate apartment and trying not to watch the clock. One more morning has gone by since James died. One more minute. One more second.

But today, I had plans. Real plans, like a normal person. Last weekend was the two-year anniversary, and I’d decided it was time. Time to at least pretend.

I had a full day scheduled. I would start with the Fine Arts Museum, where I’d try to be interested in art. Then I’d have lunch with my waitress friend who has weekdays free, and then look for new shoes. Later I’d go grocery shopping and spend an hour at the gym. I’d force myself to feel like a typical twenty-four year-old whether I wanted to or not.

It was going to be a brand new day.

I’d been awake for half an hour. I was sitting on the couch eating toast in my pajamas and watching the news, and then I saw him. I should have turned the TV off but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. My eyes were riveted to his face.

He wasn’t on the news because something bad happened, like most people are. It was because his life is perfect. He’s untouchable. He’s about to get even richer, and he wants everybody to know it.

A reporter was interviewing him outside his office. He was wearing a dark suit and a blue shirt that made his eyes look ash-gray. The sun had come out for a minute, and he was squinting in a way that made him look dangerous. Scary focused. Like he knew I was out there somewhere watching him.

As if he cares. As if he ever thinks about me at all.

He raised his hand to wave as he walked away, and I caught a glimpse of the chainlink tattoo on his wrist. I’ve seen it once before, in the courtroom, when he pulled up his cuff to check his watch.

It always seemed like a metaphor. Like, everything real about him was hidden underneath.

Smiling his smug smile, he vanished into the glass and steel Phantom Building. I turned off the TV and threw out the rest of my toast.

Then I typed out the letter I’ve wanted to write for weeks. I signed it, stuck it in my purse, and went back to the kitchen. Before I knew it, I was pulling the Tito’s bottle from the freezer.

One shot didn’t help, but three took the edge off. I was about to drink a fourth when I got the call.

“Grace, is that you? Oh, thank God.”

“Stephanie?” My heart raced as if she could see the shot glass in my hand.

“Hannah just called in sick. Please tell me you can come to The Emerson Hotel. The Executive Council Luncheon is at noon and if you aren’t here to help I’ll die. I’ll die.”

“I can’t, Stephanie. I’m…busy.”

“No, you’re not. You hate days off.”

Shit. She knew me too well. “What about Patrick?”

“He’s scouting venues with a broker. He’s the one who told me to call you.” Her voice got high and whiny. “Please?”

The vodka bottle sat accusingly on the kitchen counter. “I don’t feel well.”

“You sound fine.”

“I’m lightheaded.”

She huffed. “You’re lying. Why are you lying?”

I almost told her right then. I almost admitted that I’m so tired of feeling lost, sometimes I drink when I shouldn’t. I almost said I was on the wagon until I saw Bram Russell’s face. But if I said it out loud, then it would be real. It would officially be a “problem,” and I can’t handle another one of those.

“Two hours,” she said. “You can be busy and sick later.”

“I’m in no condition. Seriously.”

She took a deep breath and went in for the kill. “Remember when you sent that wedding cake to Martin’s Lane instead of Martin’s Circle, and I drove all the way to the outskirts of town to get it? Like, willingly? With an amazing attitude?”

I winced. “And I said, anytime you need a favor, or my first-born child…”

“Yup, you did.”

She was right. She’d saved me more than once. When Divine Events first hired me and I was a clueless ingenue, she taught me everything. She encouraged me to take risks and follow my instincts, even if only half my broken heart was in it.

“Two hours max,” I said, flipping the coffee pot back on. “And I need to take a shower.”

She let out a shriek. “I fucking love you.”

I grab a mug out of the cabinet. “I really did have plans, you know.”

“They’ll still be there on your next day off. Now get your ass down here and help me. I’ve got forty banksters showing up in an hour.”

It’s twenty minutes until showtime. Stephanie is across the room checking the sound system. I’ve set up the podium, vacuumed stray crumbs off the chairs, and stocked the buffet tables. Two cups of coffee have made me feel tipsy and wired, but I’m doing a good job of faking sober.

Vodka and Bram Russell be damned. This thing is going off without a hitch.

The servers file in, chatting and tying their aprons. One of the guys, a tall blonde with biceps that strain at his white shirt, shoots me a crooked smile.

I give him a semi-inebriated stare. Please. Minister’s daughter, virgin, dead fiancé. He’d have better luck with a Kardashian.

“Excuse me?”

The assistant to the event host roars up behind me with a murderous look on her face. She’s tall, with a waist-length sheet of raven hair. She’s wearing a form-fitting red midi-dress no one under forty should be able to afford. It looks amazing on her.

I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “How can I help?”

“The lunch is about to start,” she hisses. “Where the fuck are the flowers?”

“Last I checked they’re on the way, but I’ll be happy to check again.”

Pressing my headset clumsily into my ear, I call the florist’s driver for the third time. For the third time, it goes to voicemail.

“They must be in the Larson Tunnel,” I say. “But I promise they’ll be there.”

“Did the food come at least?” she asks.

“The caterers are in the kitchen prepping right now.” I touch her arm and give her my best soothing smile. “Everything’s under control.”

“It’d better be,” she says, bright red lips twisting. “Patrick told me he only hires the best. If this event isn’t perfect, heads will roll. Including mine.”

She turns and walks out. My chest deflates. I should only be so fashionable, so on the ball, so disgustingly perfect.

As I put out place cards, two words keep piercing the shell around my heart. The best.

Once I thought the best applied to me. When I was majoring in hospitality in college and planning events at my father’s church on the side. When I still had ambitions beyond surviving each day without cracking.

Before life lost all meaning, and barely functional became my new normal.

I squeeze the back of a chair until my hand aches. One day I’ll be that girl again. I’ll have dreams and ambitions and a reason to wake up in the morning. Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it?

Or not, according to the therapist my parents made me see, the one who said I had complicated grief.

“Well, of course grief is complicated,” I said. “There is nothing about this shit that’s simple.”

But she was talking about something else. The kind of grief that doesn’t go away by itself. Not for years. Decades, even.

She said she could help me get better. I haven’t been back to see her since.

I don’t want help. I don’t want to get better. I just want James back. If pain is all I have left of him, I’ll never let it go.

Stephanie’s assistant, Wendy, bustles into the room and touches my back. “Um, Grace? Patrick’s out in the lobby.”

“He is?” I’m suddenly feeling a lot more sober. “Why?”

“He had to meet a client down the street. He asked to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay,” I say, handing her my earpiece and tablet. “Can you keep calling about the flowers? We have eight minutes to make this happen.”

She gives me a thumbs-up. “I’m on it.”

Popping a mint into my mouth, I walk to the lobby. I head past the main desk toward the lounge. The polished marble floor feels like ice under my heels, and the pattern on the walls makes me dizzy.

Okay. So I’m not in the best shape for a talk with my boss.

Tossing back my hair, I take a quick, steeling breath. You’ve got this, Grace. You can do it. As long as you don’t completely fucking blow it.

I see Patrick standing near a large gas fireplace with his back to me. His bomber jacket is speckled with rain. He turns, spotting me just as I step onto the carpet.

“Morning,” he says.

“Hi, Patrick!” My mouth is so dry his name catches in my throat.

Pressing his lips together, he sits down in a striped swivel chair. “Sorry to drag you away. How’s it going in there?”

“All set. Just waiting on the flowers.”

I perch on the chair across from him and press my trembling knees together. I radiate vodka and fear.

“I only have a minute,” he says.

“Okay.” Who told him? One of the servers? The woman in the red dress?

He runs a hand through his thinning red hair. “I’ll get right to it, Grace. I hired you last year because I thought it was the right thing to do. I knew you were having some…difficulty, and I wanted to help.”

My insides are frozen. I can hardly breathe. “I appreciate that.”

“But I’ll be honest,” he says. “My instincts told me not to do it.”

My heart withers. All I can think to do is nod.

“Stephanie convinced me to give you a shot. She saw potential during your interview. I agreed to give you six months to prove yourself.”

Blood rushes to my face as I remember my rocky first days. “I know I’ve made mistakes, Patrick –”

He holds up his hand. “I know. A three-tiered cake instead of five. Hors d’ouevres delivered to the wrong venue. A thirty-second delay on a wedding song.”

Wow. He knows my fuck-ups by heart. I guess showing up to work drunk is the last straw.

I clutch my caffeine-shaky hands in my lap. It doesn’t matter if I had good intentions. Proving myself is over. My career might be over, too, before I even gave it a chance.

My mind skips back to the first event I ever planned. I always loved parties, even simple birthdays for the neighbors’ kids and cookouts during the summer. Tonight we might go back to a strained, silent house, but for a few hours we could be like everyone else.

I was twenty when my mother said that two of my father’s parishioners wanted to throw an engagement party at the church. When I heard they were looking for an event planner, I offered to work for free.

I was too young and naïve to be nervous. I read every book I could find on hosting and planning. My theme was a vintage garden party, and even though I had a shoestring budget, all of the women loved it.

I’d never been so happy. I finally felt good at something. I had a purpose in life.

After that, whenever there was an event at my father’s church, I got to plan it. Baptisms, memorials, retirement parties where ten people showed up – it didn’t matter what it was. I threw my heart and soul into it. I never had much money to work with, but I had the ability to give people memories. I could make them smile.

And the best part was that I was useful at my father’s church. Every time I helped plan a fundraiser or birthday party, I belonged. I wasn’t the misfit daughter anymore. He never said he was proud of me, but I could see it in his eyes. At least I hoped I could.

But after all the press about James, my father didn’t want me involved at the church anymore. I was a distraction. Not to mention hard-headed and disobedient.

I’d pushed James’s parents to join me in a lawsuit so we could convince a civil jury to do what the criminal justice system hadn’t: make Bram Russell pay. All I wanted was some tiny bit of justice. What was thirteen million dollars to a man like Bram Russell? Less than nothing. But he fought like hell for it anyway.

My father wanted me to drop the case. Accept that the law was on the side of James’s killer and move on.

But I wouldn’t. I defied him. And worse, I lost.

Pastor Garrett’s name was in the papers every day for months in connection with me. His stubborn, defiant daughter. Not the son he wanted. Not even his own blood.

Now I’m losing my job. It’s my fault. I let Bram Russell knock me down again.

Squaring my shoulders, I look Patrick in the eye. I’ll tell him the truth and resign. He deserves that much after giving me a chance.

“Patrick, I –”

“My point is,” he says. “You’ve made mistakes, but we’ve all had disasters in this business.”

I frown. “We have?”

He gives me a wry smile. “Are you kidding? When I first started out? I made every mistake in the book. Twice.”

“Does that mean you’re not…firing me?”

He laughs. “Firing you? I think you’re ready to take on more responsibility. In fact, you’ll need to after I let Stephanie go.”

I whipsaw from relief to confusion in less than a second. “Wait a minute. You’re letting Stephanie go?”

“I can’t give you more responsibility and keep her on.”

“But she told you to hire me. She taught me everything I know.”

“Yes, she did, and she’s good at her job. But you have a feel for this business.” He clenches his fists for emphasis. “You have real talent. You’re creative, you love the work, you’re good with people. You work too hard, but you’ll find a balance.”

I don’t love the work, I almost blurt. I love the distraction. My dream was my own business, back when I still had dreams.

“The choice was between Stephanie and me?” I ask. My voice is hoarse and quiet.

“Yes.”

“When did you decide?”

“When you agreed to work on your day off for the fourth time since August. That kind of dedication is rare.”

“I came in because Stephanie begged.”

“You came,” he says. “That’s what matters.”

I twist my hands together. “But I shouldn’t have. If I’d done the right thing –”

I catch a glimpse of vivid purple and green as the revolving door swings open and the florist’s driver walks in. Stephanie rushes across the lobby and takes one of the huge vases out of his arms. As she hustles past me, she catches my eye and winks.

I remember what she said the first day she trained me. Working for Divine Events was her dream job. She’d toiled through years of shit work for caterers and wedding planners, but now she was proud to tell people what she did.

I lean forward and lower my voice. “Stephanie has two kids. Her husband just took a job with a start-up. It doesn’t pay much yet.”

Patrick sighs. “I know. Running a business forces me to make tough decisions.”

“I don’t feel right about this,” I say. “Can’t we keep everything as it is?”

He shakes his head. “I understand you and Stephanie are friends, but sometimes change is necessary. We have to leave what’s familiar to see what’s possible.”

He stands up. End of discussion. A cocktail of vodka and guilt swirls in my stomach.

I should be thrilled. Instead I feel sick.

“I have to run,” he says. “We’ll talk about your raise tomorrow, okay?”

I swallow hard. “My raise?”

“More responsibility means more money. Oh, and one last thing. We’ve been invited to put in bids on three events for Phantom Industries. If we win, it could be huge for us.”

I stare up at him. “Phantom,” I repeat in a shocked monotone.

“I’m aware of your history with Bram Russell, but this is a big opportunity.”

“Would I have to…” I trail off.

“See him personally? I don’t know. But you can handle it. You’re a professional. You’ve proven that over the last eight months.”

He turns to go. My mind whirls. Did Bram Russell know? Did he ask us to bid just to taunt me? To get close so he could mock me to my face?

My heart is jolting in my chest. The walls lurch and close in on me. I can’t breathe.

Suddenly I hear my own voice. It sounds strong and clear. “I quit.”

Patrick stops dead. He turns around slowly. “Did you say something, Grace?”

I stand up on numb legs. “I said, thank you for your confidence, but I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s been on my mind for a few weeks,” I say. “I think now is a good time for me to pursue other opportunities.”

“Look, if this is about Stephanie…”

“This is about me. Really.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “Are you sure? I need to commit to one of you. We can’t undo this if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Patrick says something about hoping I find what I’m looking for, but his eyes are clouded with doubt. Maybe I’m one of those people who can’t be happy, no matter how many chances I get. Maybe I’m so stuck in the past, the future doesn’t exist for me.

That’s what he’s thinking. That’s what I’m thinking, too.

It isn’t until after the event is over and I’ve said goodbye to Stephanie that I remember the letter in my bag.

It’s still early afternoon. Plenty of time.

I don’t have my job anymore, but I have something important to do. Something that will give my broken life meaning.

A quick drink in the hotel bar and I’ll be ready.