Chapter 11: The Steakhouse

The comments were worse than the video.

"Cold as ice."

"Imagine locking your own sister out."

"Her sister slept with her husband and she still gave her forty dollars, what is wrong with people."

That last one had nine thousand likes, and I held onto it with both hands.

Raf stood at the foot of my bed in yesterday's shirt with his phone against his ear.

"I can have it down in an hour," he said.

"No."

"Carla. Two hundred thousand people."

"Two hundred thousand strangers who've never seen her cry on cue."

I got out of bed.

"I'm not asking them to un-see it. I'm going to give her the bill."

He lowered the phone.

"The bill."

"I do this for a living," I said, and found my laptop under a pile of shoe boxes.

It took me forty minutes.

I had the bank statements for eleven years of her life, because I had been the one paying.

Her first car, the used Honda, nine thousand two hundred.

Rent for two apartments, four thousand eight hundred for the first, six thousand for the second.

Her phone, her insurance, her dental work, a cosmetic procedure she told me was a gift from a friend.

Twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and ten dollars.

I printed one page, with a clean total on the bottom, and I signed it.

Raf read it over my shoulder.

"You kept all this?"

"I keep everything."

"Where is she working?"

"Pio says she started three weeks ago as a hostess at the Cardinal Steakhouse on Broadway," he said slowly.

"Who owns the Cardinal?"

"A man from Silver Lake."

"Ugo Tessari."

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