Chapter 2

My phone buzzed with a text from Emily.

She sent me a photo. She stood with a man in a sharp suit and slicked-back hair in front of floor-to-ceiling windows at the airport, and the international airport sign loomed behind them.

She wore a tailored beige trench coat, and her long hair fell in loose waves. Her makeup looked flawless. The man had his arm around her waist, and confidence radiated from his expression.

The caption read: [Grace, meet Henry Warren, my fiancé. Cambridge Law School graduate, now working at the biggest firm in the city. He says my case has over a ninety percent win rate. Let's not make this ugly.]

I stared at the photo for a long time.

Then I opened the blue notebook and flipped to the last page.

The final transfer was three months ago, and was for 17 thousand dollars, with a note that said "PhD graduation trip."

Emily had called me that day, and her voice turned sweet and pleading. "Grace, all my classmates went to Iceland to see the Northern Lights, and I'm the only one who's never been anywhere outside the country," she said. "Please, just this last time. I only need seventeen thousand."

I had just paid the rent for the next quarter for my shop and had only 21 thousand dollars left in my account.

"Okay," I said.

I still remember the sound of her cheering on the other end of the line.

I closed my notebook and dug through my bag for the old phone I'd had for six years.

The screen was cracked, but it still worked. I opened the voice recording folder and scrolled through hundreds of files, each one labeled with a date and Emily's name.

I tapped on the most recent one from three months ago.

"Grace, you're the best. I promise this is the last time I'll ask for money. Once I graduate and come home, I'll get a great job and pay back everything I've spent these past few years.

"No, I'll pay double! I'm gonna buy you a huge house so you can collect rent and spend your days shopping and getting spa treatments."

Emily's voice filled the warehouse, bright and sweet and full of life.

I turned off the recording and opened the EMS envelope.

Inside were court documents, a summons, a copy of the complaint, and a list of evidence. Emily's signature looked smooth and confident on the complaint, nothing like the shaky handwriting of the girl who'd cried in my arms six years ago.

Henry's name was printed in the bottom-right corner, with his law firm's name stamped in gold.

The amount they were suing for was 290 thousand dollars. The exact total of our parents' inheritance.

They didn't mention the extra 510 thousand I'd transferred to her over the years.

I spread the complaint flat on the table and pressed down one corner with my chipped plastic cup.

Then I pulled out my other phone, the new iPhone I'd bought last year, so I'd look more professional when I contacted suppliers. I opened the voice recording app and set it on the table.

"Joan," I called toward the door, "can you watch the warehouse for me? I need to go out for a bit."

Joan's voice floated back to me. "Sure thing! Grace, you okay? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I said.

I grabbed both phones, my blue notebook, and the envelope, and walked out of the warehouse. The hallway lights in the wholesale market cast a yellowish glow, and the air smelled of cheap perfume, leather, and sweat. I made my way through the familiar corridors.

I passed shop after shop selling lingerie wholesale, kids' clothes on sale, and clearance shoes and hats. The vendors greeted me as I walked by, and I nodded back but kept moving.

At the far end of the market was the print shop I always went to. The owner was hunched over her phone when I walked in.

I said, "Luna, I need to print something."

She looked up and asked, "What do you need, Grace?"

I handed her the blue notebook and said, "This. Every page. Three copies."

Luna Foster took the notebook and flipped to the first page. She saw the photo, glanced up at me, but didn't say anything.

The copier hummed to life and started reproducing the yellowed pages one by one. Some of the writing had smudged where my sweat had dripped onto the ledger while I was doing inventory in the warehouse.

While I waited, I pulled out my old phone and opened my chat history with Emily. I searched for "money," and hundreds of messages flooded the screen.

[Grace, can you send another 1,700 dollars? My rent went up.]

[Grace, I want to buy a decent coat for the academic conference. Clothes are so expensive here.]

[Grace, my phone broke. I need a new one.]

[Grace, it's my classmate's birthday, and we're going to this fancy restaurant. We're splitting the bill, and it's 70 dollars each.]

[Grace—]

Message after message, page after page. Six years compressed into words and numbers. I started taking screenshots and saved them one by one.

Luna finished and said, "All done." She slid three thick stacks into a folder and asked, "Grace, what's this for?"

I said calmly, "A lawsuit."