“You have everything that matters,” Genevieve said, sliding in beside her. “You have your mind. Your integrity. And now you have us.”
“Your old life ended ten minutes ago,” Antoine said from the opposite seat as the car pulled silently into traffic. “Your new one begins now. We fly at seven a.m. from JFK.”
“Tomorrow,” Eve gasped. “But I can’t.”
“You can,” Genevieve said. “Here is what you will do. The car will take you to your apartment in Queens. You will pack one suitcase. Only what is essential. Your passport. Your laptop. The things that are irreplaceable. The rest, the clothes, the furniture, they are just things. We will handle the termination of your lease. We will have the rest of your belongings professionally packed and shipped, or disposed of, as you wish.”
Eve looked at these two people, who operated at a speed and a level of efficiency she could barely comprehend. They had not just offered her a job. They had staged an extraction.
“Go,” Antoine said. “Make your peace with that life. Your car to the airport will be at your apartment at four a.m. sharp.”
The ride from the Upper East Side to her walk-up in Astoria was a journey between two universes. The Mercedes, smelling of new leather and quiet power, glided over the Queensboro Bridge, leaving the glittering spires of Manhattan behind. When it pulled up outside her building, with its graffiti-laced entryway and flickering fluorescent light, the chauffeur did not bat an eye. “I will wait here, mademoiselle.”
Eve walked up the three flights of stairs, the smell of her neighbors’ cooking, garlic and old grease, clinging to the air. She fumbled with her key, her hand still trembling. She opened the door. Her roommate, Sara, was asleep on the lumpy sofa, the TV blaring a reality show. The small apartment was a mess of takeout containers and textbooks. This had been her reality. Her prison. For a moment, she was paralyzed. How could she bridge the gap between this room and the Carlyle? Between a shared, crumbling bathroom and a seven a.m. flight to Paris in first class?
One suitcase. She moved quietly, automatically. She pulled her only piece of luggage, a battered carry-on, from the back of her closet. What was essential? Not the two black-and-white uniforms, which she folded and left on her unmade bed, a final symbolic shedding of her skin. Not the worn-out non-slip shoes. Not the cheap sweaters or the jeans with the frayed hems. In went her laptop, containing her half-finished, long-abandoned thesis. A small framed photograph of her father standing on the steps of the embassy, looking proud. Her mother’s simple gold locket. Her dog-eared, heavily annotated copy of Swann’s Way. Her passport. And that was it. There was room to spare. She realized, with a hollow shock, that almost everything she owned was replaceable.
She sat on the edge of her bed. She had two calls to make. First, her landlord. It went to voicemail. “Mr. Petro, this is Eve Martin from 3B. I know this is sudden, but I have to break my lease. I’m moving out, effective immediately. I’ll be forfeiting my security deposit. Of course. Someone will be in touch about my things.” She hung up, feeling a wild, irresponsible thrill.
Second, her father. She dialed the number for his small condo in Florida. He picked up on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep. “Dad, it’s me.”
“Eve,” he said, suddenly wide awake, his voice laced with the old, familiar panic. He always expected bad news. “It’s past one in the morning. Is everything—are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, Dad. I’m more than okay.”