They battered me with questions until I dove into a waiting cab and slammed the door.
"East 60th and 3rd, please." My plan was simple: have the cabbie drop me off a couple blocks away from home and sneak into the service entrance of our building without being seen or recognized. My strawberry blonde hair—heavy on the strawberry—was too distinctive. That would be the first thing to go as soon as I got out of this town. I clutched my purse to my chest. My future, a one-way ticket to Atlanta, where I could disappear to my final destination, was tucked inside. I was flying coach for the first time in my life—a fact I wasn’t proud of. I bundled my hair into a low bun and fished a giant pair of sunglasses and a scarf out of my purse. Somewhat disguised, I kept my head down until the car slowed to a stop. I tossed some bills at the cabbie and slid out of the taxi.
The service elevator trundled its way up fifty-one floors, stopping at the penthouse. My hand shook as I typed in the twelve-digit code required to enter. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the cavernous ultra-modern space that was my family’s Manhattan home. After the inevitable guilty verdict came down, it’d become the property of the federal government along with the rest of the meager assets that the FBI had managed to find and freeze. To finance my escape, I’d cashed in $20,000 worth of savings bonds I’d found tucked into my First Communion bible. I tried not to dwell on the irony of my salvation being found in the good book.
My one bag was already packed, but a casual observer would never know I had taken anything from my walk-in closet. The racks full of designer suits and couture that my mother insisted I wear were untouched. The shelves of Manolos and Louboutins were intact. They had no place in my future. I’d never put on another suit and walk into Agoston Investments, or any other reputable company. Never apply to Wharton and get my MBA. I’d naively thought I could somehow atone for the sins of my father by throwing myself into charity work. Put my newly earned finance degree to work for a good cause. I’d been laughed out of every organization I’d visited over the last two months. No one wanted me. And I couldn't blame them. I wouldn't trust anyone with my last name either.
After the last rejection, I’d come to a decision: I would never use my degree for my own benefit. Ever. I didn’t deserve it. I might have earned it myself, but how could I profit from it with good conscience? Along with that decision had come a stark realization: I had no future in this city, where I’d forever be a watched under a cloud of suspicion. So I’d started planning my escape.
I stripped out of my black Saint Laurent wool blazer and V-neck dress and hung them up in their appropriate places. I pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans, an American Apparel tank and hoody, and my one contraband pair of black Chucks that were hidden in the bottom of my closet. This was the new me. This was the me who would never set foot in this penthouse again. After I dressed, I left my cell phone on the dresser, hefted a black, non-descript duffle bag over my shoulder, and headed through the kitchen to the staff entrance. It seemed fitting. Come in the front door one way and leave out the back a different person.
Juanita, the housekeeper who had been part of my life for all of my twenty-two years, blocked the doorway. She looked pointedly at my attire and the duffle. “And where do you think you’re going, hmmm?”
“Somewhere else.” As much as I wanted to tell her where, I couldn’t. I wanted her to have plausible deniability.
She pulled me into her soft, familiar arms and hugged me. Lisette Agoston didn’t hug. And she would cringe to see me hugging the help. For the daughter of a plumber from upstate New York, she’d had no problem becoming a classist bitch.
“You can’t run from this, sweetheart.”
I pulled back, loathing releasing her for what might be the last time, and met her kind brown eyes. “I know. But I can try.”
I pulled a sealed envelope from the pocket of my duffle and held it out. “Could you make sure my mother gets this?”
She nodded. I threw myself into her arms one more time. I kissed her papery cheek and blinked back the gathering tears. “Thank you. For … everything.”
She stepped back and her chapped hands cupped my face. “Charlotte, just because you are your father’s daughter does not make you like him.”
I nodded. Because she would argue with me until the end of time to prove her point. But she was wrong about this one. I was my father’s daughter. His blood. Raised in his image to follow in his footsteps. If he was capable of that kind of evil, what was I capable of? I never wanted to find out. I kissed her cheek one more time and opened the door, leaving behind the only life I’d ever known.
Chapter 2
One year later.
New Orleans, Louisiana.