-

The cashier's name is Ashlyn, and she has dyed purple hair, a ring in her left eyebrow, and the most crooked teeth I have ever seen in my life that I wonder how in the world she's able to eat anything at all — and why she thought it was ever a good idea to go out in public with such teeth.

"Asiago bagel with lox for Erin!" she calls out.

I step up to the counter and take the wrapped bagel sandwich from her; it's hot. "Thanks, Ashlyn," I say.

"No problem. Have a great day!" She smiles at me, and it takes everything in me to not shudder at the mess in her mouth.

I pass her a scrap of paper, reminiscent of what Paige had done to Doc, but on the paper is not my phone number — gross — but rather the phone number to my orthodontist. "Dr. Smith is the best in the business," I say to her.

Confusion clouds her features as she takes the slip, but this is for her own good. I leave before she can thank me. It's only eight in the morning, and, would you look at that, I've already done my one good deed for the day. I practically skip past the long line of people for their bagel sandwiches; I can feel their eyes on me, their jealousy at my sandwich thick in the air. Near the entrance, at the back of the line, a cute guy opens the door for me.

"Have a good one," he says and then hands me the edge of a torn receipt with his number written on it.

I take it and place my sunglasses on my nose. "I will," I say.

His chuckle follows me as I exit the building. I unwrap my bagel sandwich and, right there, on the sidewalk, I take my first bite. There is a reason why Schwartz's Bagels is the best in all of New York City: the exterior of the bagel is crunchy without being hard while the interior is neither chewy nor dense but fluffy with a slight firmness. The lox is not only ample but also fresh, sourced and smoked locally, the cream cheese is creamy with no sour aftertaste, and the chives give a slight crunch.

I continue down the sidewalk, occasionally taking bites of my sandwich, until I reach Central Park. I enter and spot an empty bench. I sit down just as my phone rings. I fish it out from my purse; the caller ID reads, Courtney Taylor. I quickly swallow my food. "Hi, Courtney, good morning!"

"Hey, Erin!" Her voice is high and dulcet. It grates on my nerves already, but I keep my smile plastered on. "How are you today?"

"I'm good, how are you?"

"Good! I wanted to call you since I figured it would be easier," she says. "I wanted to touch base with you on scheduling the consult."

"Yes, do any of the times I provided work for you?"

"Jack and I can do next Saturday morning at nine, if that works?"

"That is perfect," I say. "I'll see you then. You have my address?"

"We do! Do we need to prepare anything specific?"

"Your ring sizes as well as your style preferences. I'll take care of the rest."

"Amazing!" she exclaims. "Both of us are so excited to meet you and see your rings. Antonia has spoken so highly of you."

I make a mental note to text Antonia after this. "I look forward to meeting you as well, Courtney," I say. "Let me know if anything changes before then." I get ready to hang up.

"I've seen your work on Instagram," she continues, "and, not to jump the gun, but I just know that I want a ring from you."

"I appreciate that," I say.

"And the fact that you made Aria Anderson's ring?! It was literally on every celebrity page — my friends could not stop gushing about it."

"No way."

She doesn't notice my sarcasm. "Yes way! Your designs are the stuff of dreams, Erin."

My sandwich is growing cold. I stare at it, wanting nothing more than to end this call so I can eat my bagel. But she's my client, and one with deep pockets, so I say, as sincerely as I can, "I hope I can do your vision justice, Courtney."

She squeals — loudly — and, at the sound that blasts from my phone, I nearly drop my precious sandwich. Fuck! I clutch it tightly in my left hand. "This is so exciting, I cannot wait!" she's saying. "Jack is beside himself, too."

"I love to hear that. If you have any questions for me before our meeting, just send me a text. I look forward to seeing you both soon." My thumb hovers over the red button.

"Of course! Thank you, Erin, so much."

"Don't thank me yet."

She laughs heartily. "I hope you have a lovely day!"

Not if you keep talking. "You as well."

We, somehow, exchange another round of pleasantries, which takes up another three minutes, and then, halle-fucking-lujah, I hang up. I snatch my sandwich and take a big bite. As I chew, I pull up my calendar in my phone and input the details of the consult for next Saturday. Then, I text Antonia: Seeing Courtney next Sat. I owe you.

Her response is immediate. Love! Lmk how it goes. As payback, come to my party :)

A party hosted by the biggest influencer in the world? That means more rich people, which means more clients, which means more dough for me. "Send me the info," I text her.

She sends me the details; I heart the message and tuck my phone back into my purse. Then, I spend the next several, blissful minutes eating my sandwich. At one point, a pigeon lands by my feet and cocks its head at me, at the bagel. "You wish," I tell it. It doesn't stop staring at me, at my sandwich. I finish it, making a show of eating the whole damn thing without sharing a single crumb. Crumbling the wrapper in one hand, I grab a stick of gum from my purse pocket with the other and pop it into my mouth. I hook my purse onto my shoulder and stand up. "Shoo," I tell the pigeon. It backs away, but it still stares at me and then proceeds to follow me. Goddammit. Even pigeons are obsessed with me.

Eventually, though, as I pass through the gates of the park, the pigeon stops and flies away. I step out onto the sidewalk where traffic has already accumulated on the road beside. I throw away the sandwich wrapper in a nearby trash can and, making sure no cars are passing by, I jaywalk toward the subway station across the street.

First stop is SoHo where I drop off the Marquise diamond ring I had made for Isadora Dearing; the socialite crushes me in a hug, and her perfume makes my eyes water. She loves the ring, of course she does, and she tips me a wad of cash as thick as the ones that mafiosos on TV give to their hitmen, but instead of for murdering someone in cold blood, this tip is for my making the trip and for being her "bling master, darling." I carefully tuck the cash into my purse and exchange another round of air kisses.

Afterward, I travel farther down toward the Garment District to the first floor of a building with a terrible green awning that has the words, "Woolly Trading, Inc." An equally terrible name, but Isaac Woolly has the best diamonds in the business.

"If it isn't Miss Congeniality," Isaac says from behind his perch behind the counter when I enter. He's dressed in a silk printed shirt and white chinos and tinted glasses that are more fashion than necessity. His nails are painted a hot pink, and he has his signature half smirk, half sneer that makes him appear as if he's disgusted that you would pick such a thing to wear but also secretly impressed that you would have the guts to embarrass yourself like that.

"Just say you missed me, bitch," I tell him.

He snorts. He gets off his stool and comes round the counter, toward me. We embrace, and he says, "So, who's our newest victim?"

I place my purse onto the glass counter and slide onto the stool opposite his. "Courtney Taylor and Jack Chung."

Isaac peers at me over his glasses. "Oh, they're rich rich."

"Why do you think I'm here?" Isaac Woolly not only has the highest quality diamonds in the business, but he also knows everything about them — and not just diamonds. Name any gemstone, and you bet he already has its full profile pulled up in his head before you finish your sentence.

He sighs. "What would you do without me?"

"Find someone better," I say.

He grasps his heart like the drama queen he is. "But I'm the best."

Unfortunately, he is. "That's true," I say.

Isaac grins. "I knew you loved me." He disappears into the back and reappears moments later, carrying a large black case. He sets it on the counter but before he unlocks the latches, he looks at me and says, "These are for your eyes only, you got it?"

"Because I'm your favorite."

"Something like that."

"Well, then, don't keep your favorite waiting."

Isaac unlocks the latches with two snaps, and then, pulls back the lid. Inside, nestled into their foam compartments are dozens of diamonds: pink, yellow, violet, and green, and — holy shit —

"Is that a red diamond?" All my senses zero in on the small round gem that sits in the upper left corner. To the untrained eye, it looks like an extra sparkly ruby or spinel, but once you know the difference, you'd kick yourself for being so naive and mistaking the two of them for each other.

Isaac pinches the gem in his loupe and holds it up to the lamp light. "Sourced from the Argyle mine before it closed down so it's all natural, too. You could say it's the last of its kind from there."

I've only ever seen a red diamond once before but never this close. I want to touch it, but I keep my hands firmly in my lap. "One-point-five carats?" I ask.

He nods.

"Do I even want to ask about the price?"

"Honey, only if you got smelling salts."

I study the diamond some more. I'm not an expert like Isaac is, but I wouldn't be surprised if this little thing, with its provenance and vibrant red color, is worth at least three million bucks. Courtney and Jack are rich, yes, but I don't usually try to scare off my new clients before I can get them to pay me at all.

"How did you even get this?" I ask.

Even through his tinted glasses, his eyes twinkle. "A jeweler never reveals his secrets."

"Loser."

"Love you, too, babes."

"Fine," I say with some reluctance. "Show me the others."

Isaac walks me through each of the other options, their backstories and their specs; I review each one, using a pair of his loupes to inspect every facet under the light. I already have a small arsenal of diamonds at my apartment, but I have a feeling that Courtney may enjoy a color or shape that is not as common.

By the time we finish, it's half past five, my legs feel numb from sitting for hours on end, and I have two diamonds — a five carat Asscher cut and a three-point-five carat lozenge — I think Courtney may like, and, if not, then I'll find some other nepo baby bimbo with a billionaire cardboard cut-out of a husband who would want them.

"Thank you, Isaac," I tell him as we embrace again.

"Always a pleasure," Isaac says. "Don't be a stranger."

"Don't tempt me," I say.

His laugh follows me out the store.

-

Over one thousand people arrive for Bianca Diaz's candlelight vigil. I refuse to believe that that many people would show up for a person they don't even know: the news has a tendency to lie, after all. Besides, does no one have anything better to do on a Saturday night?

"She's dead, move on," I say aloud. The news should really be covering the police's progress on finding the killer, but, oh wait, there is none, because the police are useless. No surprise there. I can't blame them, though. To wield such innate power, especially in a city like this one, must give you a crazy buzz that it makes sense that all you'd want to do is strut around with your fingers in your belt loops, your gun in full display.

The screen cuts to footage of interviews of people who knew, and don't know, Bianca:

"She was such a light, always so kind to everyone she met and so hard working. It's cruel that she was taken from us in this way — she had so much more to live for."

"Another innocent person has died, and it's heartbreaking. I'm just trying to show up for the community because this has got to stop."

"I miss her every day. She was not only my sister but also my best friend, and I don't know what I'd do without her."

Blah blah blah. I wonder if the killer is watching this right now. I wonder if he feels pride in what he's done — to have such an effect in the city for one thousand and some people and an entire news crew to show up and pay their respects. If I were a serial killer, I would revel in it. In fact, I would don my favorite dress and put on my favorite jewels, and perch on the couch and watch everything unfold in front of me as the sadness seeps through the screen and into my skin and gives me a high that would make me feel like I was floating.

Fortunately, I'm not a serial killer because I don't need to kill in order to get attention.

I continue to sketch designs for Courtney's rings for the rest of the coverage, and, eventually, the news moves on to other things. It's 11:48 PM when I finally put my pencil down. I roll my cramping wrist; I've drawn up twelve different designs for Courtney. I may create prototypes for all of them or none of them, but, for now, I close my sketchbook and turn off the monitor. The apartment descends into silence, and, in that moment, I am aware of how alone I am in here, just me in the glow of my lone lamp.

Doc's words from last night echo in my brain: You never know with these serial killer types. One day, they could do one thing, and the next, they could do something entirely different.

Immediately, I snort. I live on the tenth floor in a luxury apartment complex with 24/7 security on the Upper West Side. Let's see The Barbie Slayer — still such a dumb name, by the way — scale ten stories without breaking a finger, and even if he does succeed, he'll be tired from the climb to do much else anyway, so I'll just smash his nose in with my porcelain vase and watch as he falls to his death onto the concrete below. Easy.

I turn off the light.