I finally sit up, no longer feeling tired. My whole body aches, but in a good way. I stumble to the sink and wash my face. I put on a sleek red Adidas tracksuit and enter my office.
The light streaming into the room is mellow and dry. It isn’t just another typical gross, humid New York day. The day feels caramelly and mellow. I feel good. It is so rare for me to feel good that I make a note of it. How did I get to feel good? I try to chart the path of it, thinking back, hoping to somehow replicate it.
Ed comes into the office, his face long.
“The general rises,” he says.
“How long did I sleep?” I ask.
“A long time,” he says. “People wanted to wake you up, but you told us not to let them. You said to let you sleep, whatever the cost.”
“I said that?” I say, starting to panic. What time is it? I move the mouse on my computer to wake it up.
“Oh fuck,” I say. It’s 4 p.m. I missed the twelve o’clock call.
I run back into the bedroom and rummage around in my purse for my game phone. It doesn’t show anything but the newest clue, swimming over a sea of flying toasters: “If you want to run everything, the first thing you’ve gotta do is run.”
I know this one. It means the gym where Mom used to go at night. The New York City Women’s Strength and Fitness Club.
I feel sick to my stomach. I call Alistair, but he doesn’t pick up. I call Gabriella, but it goes to her voice mail. I even call Bernard, knowing he won’t answer either.
Except for Gabriella, we all have one life left. We all know our lives might be at stake if we lose. My siblings no doubt all know the answer already, and they won’t need my help. They’ve had a four-hour head start. It will be me who dies this time.
“Let’s go,” I tell Ed and Mel. “Did you guys get enough sleep? Never mind, could one of you go grab me a plate of muffins and a cup of coffee? Who came by? Did Alistair come by?”
“Your assistant,” says Ed. “He came in around 11, even though it’s Saturday. Said it was urgent. We had to put the fear of god in him. You made us more money last night than we make in a year. We were glad to do it. Also that lawyer came by. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. But we don’t work for him. We work for you. He said he was gonna get us fired, but I guess he hasn’t managed to pull that off yet.”
Mel chuckles.
I am annoyed with them, but it isn’t their fault. It’s mine. What was I doing, staying out all night gambling on the Civil War and drinking to oblivion when I should have been solving my brother’s murder or at least waking up in time to play the game on which my life depends?
As soon as Ed returns with coffee and pastries, we get in the elevator and head down to the ground floor. I practically run to the subway. My bodyguards have no trouble keeping up. We take the train to the Financial District, transferring to the R from the F. I am silent the whole time, reading articles on my phone speculating on Nylo.
There are still people wondering about our father’s death. Now there are reporters questioning what happened to Henley. Was he next in line to take over the company? Was he killed in some ruthless shareholder power play?
“Fucking ridiculous,” I say. The only company that Henley has ever understood was paid company.
“You don’t pay them to fuck you,” he used to say. “You pay them to leave.”
I can’t help but wish he were here right now. He was a hedonist without any kind of moral compass. But he was fearless.
Which I am not. I want to win, but now, more importantly, I don’t want to lose. I don’t want to find out what losing means.
30
The New York City Women’s Strength and Fitness Club is a city institution. It has been open for a hundred years as a private twenty-four-hour gym just for women. It also serves as a social club. It was once a hotbed of progressive activism, where the ladies of society used to meet up in order to figure out the problems of the poor, such as how to implement broad public health changes to the city in order to reduce communicable illnesses. Their secondary goal was to improve the lives of women all over America, generally.
The club also has a dark history involving eugenics and testing experimental drugs on prisoners, along with fairly entrenched institutional racism. By the time our mother joined up, all that was mostly in the past and it was just a very good place to run on a treadmill without being bothered by men.
We get off the subway near the ferry. I run to the club, flanked by Ed and Mel. Before I go inside, I call my siblings again, but none of them answer. I do have a message from Angelo Marino. He tells me that Henley’s memorial service will be tomorrow morning, in accordance with his wishes. It will be a low-key affair held at his favorite dive bar, Ugly American. The bar has generously agreed to let us have the run of the place before it opens.
The club lobby is full of women coming and going, their hair swept back in fashionable ponytails and wearing the trendiest Lycra athleisure. I think about calling the cops, but what good will they be at this point? They don’t care about anything that is happening to me or my family. They don’t even seem to think anything is wrong or out of the ordinary. At least I’ve got my bodyguards, even though I obviously can’t bring them in with me.
“I hate to say it,” I
