Page 87 of Rogue

That wasnotthe number she and Augustine had agreed on. It was way too much, and she would have to give at least half of it back. He should not give her that much money. She did not need that much money.

Dree had never seen a bank account with that much money in it. She assumed that somebody who had been working for ten or fifteen years, maybe twenty,mighthave a retirement account with that much money in it, but that was three years’ salary to her.

Almostfour.

Quickly, before Francis could find it and steal it, Dree transferred forty thousand to Mandi’s new account for Victor.

Dree stared at the dark, gilded ceiling in the smoky meditation room and waited for the manicurist to do her French-tipped nails.

Augustine had given her enough money for a financial cushion, but she did not know what it had meant that she had been fired from Good Sam. That was herjob.That’s how she made aliving.

She couldn’t live on Augustine’s generosity forever. It wasn’t enough to retire on.

Maybe it was just all a mistake.

Maybe she could just call HR up tomorrow from the airport or even when she got up in the hotel and explain there must have been a mistake because she had put in for leave and thought it had been granted. She even rechecked her work schedule from her phone. The black bars through those days by her name meant that they had approved her leave. She had not been scheduled, and she should not have gotten in trouble for not going to work on those days.

Later, Dree was lying in a treatment room on a hard platform with English cucumbers over her eyes and Nigerian gold-flecked mud on her face.

Her phone, which was over on the counter and out of reach, buzzed again.

Dree was supposed to be relaxing. The masseuse had told her not to check her phone.

She gathered up the sheet that the lady had draped over her and wrapped it around her naked body like a toga to get over to it.

Another text from Caridad Santos read,I think they just brought Francis Senft into the emergency room. You broke up with him? Right?

Dree texted Caridad back,Yes, we are definitely broken up. Why is he in the ER?

Caridad:He’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll join that team so I can tell you what’s going on. I’m so sorry, Dree.

Dree waited, dreading what the next text would be.

She didn’t want Francis to be dead. She wanted to tell him to go to hell again, but she didn’t want him to die.

She prayed. She prayed to God with all the force her soul could muster for him not to die and to be okay.

Maybe stitches.

Maybe he just needed a bunch of stitches and an ice pack.

The last thing she ever said to him should not have beenDrop dead.

Please, God. Please, nothing worse than stitches.

Caridad video-called Dree over her phone app two hours later. Her mascara had settled under her eyes from sweating behind a face shield, and her black hair had curled into tight ringlets from sweat and humidity inside the trauma PPE. She said, “I’m so sorry. We tried everything, but he didn’t make it.”

Dree took it like a bowling ball to the gut.

She’dneverwanted him to die.

Her prayers felt empty, like the universe had shouted back a resoundingno.

Her hand clamped over her mouth, and her gut heaved.

She couldn’t breathe and her lungs had no air. What right did she have to air when Francis was dead? His mother would be devastated and would probably stay in bed under the covers for months. His father might have another stroke at the news. If Dree, young and strong, felt like she’d beencrushed into the groundlike this, what would happen to them?

Caridad said, “It was a gunshot wound to the back of his head, execution-style.”