I received Helen’s swab kit at work this morning, and I’m now on my way to the lab. The streets are buzzing, heat rippling off the asphalt in blurry waves. I slow as I approach the building, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my back—seriously, what’s up with this heat lately, New York?Perspiration trickles between my shoulder blades, but it’s not just the temperature that has me sweating.
Suddenly, I’m second-guessing this whole thing.
This is wrong. I stole DNA from Baptiste. I lied. Even if I’m doing itforhim, does the end really justify the means?
I hesitate, shifting my weight from foot to foot on the cracked sidewalk. The heat is simmering through my clothes, my chest tightening with growing doubt. Then, I straighten. I didn’t do all this to back out now. After all, nothing is more important than family. I know he’s scared—scared to hope again, scared to be hurt again.
And if she’s lying, I’ll never tell him any of this.
But if she’s not…
Then I’ll give him the information, and he can decide what he wants to do with it. I’ll never pressure him to have a relationship with Helen. I just want him to know the truth.
The truth is what matters. It always has been.
I meet my guy at the back entrance, and he says that my sample should work, but not to expect results for a few days. The lab is backed up, and he has to be careful not to get caught, since what we’re doing isn’t exactly legal. Still, I know I can count on him. It’s not the first time I’ve asked him for something like this, and he’s always delivered.
When I wander back toward the main avenue, I notice a black sedan parked on the other side of the street.
At first, I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. But then my gaze sharpens, locking onto the license plate.
All doubt clears away. It’s the same car I keep seeing on my street. And I can only assume it’s one of Victor’s.
My blood rushes through my veins, a spike of adrenaline flooding my system. Really? How long is that jerk going to follow me around? This intimidation routine is getting old.
Clenching my jaw, I straighten my shoulders and march forward. That’s it. I’m putting an end to this.
I’m not scared of him. Or whoever he’s hiding behind.
I storm onto the pedestrian crossing, eyes fixed on the sedan. Anger narrows my vision so completely, I don’t see the yellow cab zooming toward me. Tires screech. The cab stops inches away, and the driver leans out his window, horn blaring as he shouts a string of insults.
My heart slams against my ribs, breath caught painfully in my throat.
“Sorry!” I hold up a hand in apology, my pulse roaring in my ears. “I didn’t see that it turned red.”
My legs are trembling now, heat and adrenaline colliding. I look both ways this time, forcing myself to breathe before stepping forward again.
But when I lift my head, the black sedan is gone.
I spend most of the afternoon investigating Victor, until my phone buzzes with a text from Baptiste saying that he’ll pick me up in ten minutes. He’s coming with me—again—on my weekly visit to Golden Age.
I still need to get to the bottom of what’s going on over there, and I’m more determined than ever.
I haven’t found a single smoking gun in her contract or invoices. Everything is wrapped in vague wording, the goods and services bundled into neat little “packages” with no detail whatsoever. I plan to ask management exactly what it all means.
When we arrive at Golden Age, the common room is—once again—embroiled in pure chaos.
Three residents immediately converge on us with armfuls of homemade goods. A knitted potholder is thrust toward Baptiste. Someone else waves a stack of handwritten recipe cards under my nose. There’s a jar of something that smells aggressively like lavender.
But it’s nothing compared to the poker table. Dozens of bodies are crowded around the tense game. Even crazier, my grandma is sitting right in the middle, her face drawn with stress.
Five other residents are studying their hands like their lives depend on it. Cards slap down. Chips clack together. One man’s hand is visibly shaking—whether it’s from age or nerves, I can’t say. Lois is muttering something to herself. As for my grandma, she’s stiff on her chair, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a deep crease between her brows, one I’ve never liked seeing.
The small crowd of spectators is quiet today, as if the fate of the world hinges on this game. When I look closer, I notice some of them holding small pieces of paper that look suspiciously like betting slips.
I take a deep breath and approach the table, Baptiste right beside me.
“Grandma,” I say gently.
