Page 103 of Gave Proof Through the Night

She blinks at it.

“It’s for Capucine’s penthouse so nobody’s going to ask questions, and it’s paid up through the end of July to avoid suspicion. Consider it your pre-honeymoon.”

Tanya’s mouth actually falls open. “Erica!”

“Don’t make it weird.” I’m already at the door, already smiling in spite of myself. “No boys allowed in the girls’ fort. Go be disgusting somewhere with better room service.”

I leave before she can hug me, because if she hugs me I might actually cry, and I have concealer on that I’d like to keep intact for at least one more hour.

CityCenterDC is the kind of bougie place where the stores don’t bother with price tags, because if you have to ask, you’re already in the wrong zip code. Hermès. Chanel. A Dior with what I’m fairly sure has its own private elevator. And somewhere in the middle of all that marble, there’s me in jeans and sneakers.

I have no plan except for maybe something in black that doesn’t look like I borrowed it from a goth girl.

I’m three racks deep into my second boutique when a woman in a cream blouse materializes at my elbow. Her name tag says Bitsy, but going by the look on her face, it should read Disdain instead.

“Can I help you?” Bitsy says, in a tone that suggests she would rather pull out her own fingernails than help the likes of me.

She looks me over. The shoes, jeans, the army-green bag. It’s the kind of once-over that starts at your feet and ends somewhere around your soul.

“Just browsing,” I say, pleasant, because I’ve talked my way past far scarier people than a woman named Bitsy.

“You can’t bring that in here.” She nods at my bag.

“It’s my purse.”

“That is not a purse.”

“It has a zipper. It holds my wallet. I’m fairly confident that makes it a purse.”

“We have a strict no-bags policy on the sales floor.”

“I didn’t see a sign.”

“It’s implied.”

I could leave. That would be the sane, uncomplicated thing to do. Instead I make the mistake of raising an eyebrow, and Bitsy’s whole posture sharpens, like she’s been waiting all morning for someone to give her a reason.

“Perhaps,” she says. “This isn’t the right store for you.”

“Or maybe you could just let me look at a dress.”

“We don’t typically carry items for…” She pauses, just long enough to make it a weapon, “…persons of your demographic.”

A second saleswoman drifts over, drawn by whatever silent alarm summons these people, and the two of them close in slowly, incrementally, like sharks.

“Perhaps she got lost on her way to Walmart,” the second one says, and they both laugh through their noses.

“Or the thrift store,” Bitsy adds.

This one doesn’t even introduce herself, just plants herself at Bitsy’s shoulder and starts nodding along like a backup singer.

“We really can’t have people just wandering the floor,” the second lady says.

“I’m not wandering. I’m shopping.”

“I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for here,” Bitsy snarls.

I should just leave. Seriously, I can’t even with these ladies. But something defiant inside me takes over and digs her heels down.