Kurt was the one to blame in this mess. He’d all but attacked her. Penny had only nicked the watch from his cup holder as a reminder. A reminder that she could look at whenever she was feeling down—a reminder that she had survived worse.
Was it really a crime to steal from a thief? Kurt had taken everything from her. Her suitcase, her excitement, her hope. He’d even tried to take her body and make it his. Kurt was a bad man. He didn’t deserve nice things.
And it was with a feeling of quiet justification that Penny tucked the watch back into her pocket and felt her lips turn into a slight smile. All’s fair in love and war. Penny might have lost the battle, but she wasn’t a victim. She had taken her own little prisoner of war, and she had earned it. If she pawned it, maybe it’d feed her for the next few weeks. Or she could keep it, like she kept all her other precious trinkets…
Penny found her apartment eventually. It took twenty minutes to wake the landlord, a man who looked like an extra out of The Sopranos. He held a cat in his arms and a cigarette perched between his lips, his dark hair combed back in greasy little rows.
“I thought this was a no-smoking building,” Penny said. “I just assumed… Maybe you have a lease I could read over or something?”
“Why?” he grunted, stepping out of his ground-floor apartment. “You pay me, and I leave you alone. We don’t need a lease. You’re just lucky I let you check in late. If we had a lease, you’d see the office hours stopped at 6:00 p.m., and I’d have to kick you out until morning.”
Penny didn’t have the funds or energy to be tossed out on the street for the rest of the night, so she stifled a sigh and gave a shrug of her shoulders. Looking satisfied, the man introduced himself as Lucky and left his door open behind him as he made his way upstairs. A loud TV blasted from inside, and the smell of animals and old smoke was enough to make Penny gag.
She climbed behind him to the second-level apartment. He let her in, handed over a key while she traded him for the check she’d kept safely stashed in her bra. The last of her money. Her final crumbs of financial security.
Penny cleared her throat as she stepped into a bare room. “I thought the ad said that the apartment was furnished.”
The screen on the window was torn. Old wooden floorboards creaked even before she stepped on them, and the kitchen counter—a white, cracked lacquered surface—was stained with an unidentifiable substance. A bed frame sat in the corner, but there was no mattress. A dresser missing three of its drawers was pushed against one wall. It was painfully obvious the carpeting in the sad excuse for a living room hadn’t been vacuumed.
Penny turned to look for Lucky’s response, but he was already gone. A door on the first floor slammed shut, and the television cranked up a few notches. Someone yelled for a glass of water above her. Moans filtered through the open window, dreadfully loud as two voices—one male, one female—rose in an excitable crescendo toward an inevitable finish.
Penny’s very heart sagged. She sat on the floor of a studio apartment that was costing her over $1,300 a month. Penny didn’t swear (good Midwestern Catholic girl that she was), but this place was a piece of shit.
Her phone rang. She took it out, saw her mother’s number, and pushed back the tears threatening to fall.
“Mama?” Penny answered. “How are you?”
“I’ve been worried! You were supposed to call me the second you arrived. According to the bus schedule, you should’ve been there forty minutes ago.”
“I’m just getting to my apartment. Sorry to worry you.”
“So?” Her mother’s voice hinged on the brink of terror and excitement. “Tell me all about it. Can you see the Hollywood sign from your apartment? Did you meet anyone famous yet?”
“It’s amazing. Just magnificent.” Penny pulled herself to her feet, made her way to the window, and glanced out at her view of a dumpster where a woman was currently tugging her skirt down and pocketing money in her bra. A man climbed into a car and reversed down the alley.
Penny bit her lip and stifled a sob. Then she glanced at the Rolex sitting on her cracked countertop and took a deep, steadying breath as she reached for it. She clutched it in her fingers so hard her hand knotted in a fist.
“Just wait until you hear all about it, Mama,” she said, releasing her grip on the watch and draping it over her wrist, admiring the look of her dirty, dirty secret. “You won’t believe the people I’ve met.”
TRANSCRIPT
Prosecution: Mrs. Tate, how long have you worked in the publishing industry?
Eliza Tate: This is the only job I’ve ever had.
Prosecution: How many years? Ballpark is fine.
Eliza Tate: Over a decade.
Prosecution: I’m assuming you consider yourself a professional, then, after ten-plus years in the business. You’ve thrown launch parties, organized readings and signings, facilitated book club discussions.
Defense: Your Honor, is there a question here?
Prosecution: Mrs. Tate, have you ever facilitated a literary event before?
Eliza Tate: Of course. Plenty of them.
Prosecution: And in your extensive experience, have you ever had a book club discussion turn to a plot for murder?
Eliza Tate: No.
Prosecution: Are you telling me, Mrs. Tate, that you didn’t discuss the subject of murder on the afternoon of February 13, 2019, with Anne Wilkes, Penny Sands, and Marguerite Hill?
Eliza Tate: I don’t remember everything we talked about. We had a lot of wine. We discussed a lot of things. Do you remember everything you talked about on February 13?
Prosecution: I don’t. But I would certainly remember if I’d made plans to murder a man.
THREE
Nine Months Before
May 2018
Carpe diem, Eliza,” Harold droned. “This really is an opportunity for you.”
Eliza folded her hands in front of her stiff posture. Her nails, carefully manicured, were painted bone white. She’d dressed to impress for what she’d thought would be the announcing of her (well-deserved) promotion. Eliza smoothed down her custom-cut pantsuit, then touched her hair, which she’d had done in an elegant blowout especially for the occasion.
“Eliza?” Harold pressed. “Say something, doll. I know this is a shock, but I need you to tell me you understand. Please don’t stand there in silence.”
“Very well, then.” Eliza cleared her throat, smiled sweetly at her boss. “Fuck you, Harold.”
“Come on now. Don’t do me like this. You and I have been friends for ages.”
“You know as well as I do that I deserve that promotion.”
“We’re cutting costs. The publishing industry isn’t what it used to be. You’ve seen the changes coming. We have to survive.”
“The publishing industry is thriving,” Eliza said through gritted teeth. “You still have your job, don’t you?”
“Doll—”
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Harold.” Eliza’s entire body shook, but she took a deep breath and moved her hands behind her back to cover the tremble. “You could have saved my job if you wanted, but you didn’t. At least have the balls to be honest.”