Chapter 8: Cash in an Envelope

"What gala?" I said.

"Kane Air's anniversary. Saturday night at the Pierre." Christian put his phone in his pocket. "Deirdre moved it up a month. Now I know why."

"Christian, I need to tell you..."

"Not like this." He stood. "Not on the floor with my phone going off. Get dressed. I have to go see my lawyers about Friday."

He kissed my forehead.

Then he went downstairs, and five minutes later I heard the front door.

I sat on the rug with my father's letter.

Then I got dressed and went to find Henrik myself.

His building was in Bushwick, above a laundromat.

The buzzer was broken.

Somebody had propped the front door with a brick.

I went up three flights and heard voices before I reached the landing.

Henrik's door was half open.

"...twenty now, and twenty after," a woman was saying.

"You don't go off script. You were in her bed for a year. You know every freckle."

I knew that voice.

I pushed the door the rest of the way.

Portia was standing in Henrik's tiny living room in a white coat, holding out a thick bank envelope.

Henrik was on the couch in the leather jacket, reaching for it.

They both froze.

"Hazel," Henrik said. "Hey. This isn't what it..."

"It's exactly what it looks like," Portia said.

She didn't lower the envelope.

She tucked it into the pocket of Henrik's jacket herself, and patted it.

"Henrik, please," I said. "You know none of it's true. You're going to ruin my life for twenty thousand dollars?"

"Forty," Portia said. "In total. I'm generous."

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