These thoughts ran through her head, without beginning or end. She told Gideon to stay away so he wouldn’t catch her cold before his big meeting. Then she threw all pride out the window and called Roux. Begging was also a form of taking control. She pleaded with him to see the futility of his demand. This will change nothing, she said, you’re only hurting innocent people. “Are you referring to Gideon or yourself,” said Roux, “because neither of you are what I’d call innocent.” Just listen to me, Ivy had shouted, just listen! He stopped answering her calls after that. In the stifling afternoon silence of her bedroom, her eyes strayed to a different day now on the calendar—the deadline Roux had given her to expose their affair to Gideon, unmarked on the page but permanently emblazoned in her mind with a large black X. Twelve days… eleven… ten…

She received an email from a law school consultant, one of Liana’s friends. For an affordable rate of eight thousand dollars, she could provide services such as essay and interview preparation and weekly online study sessions for the LSAT. Ivy half-heartedly agreed to think about it but then she lost the consultant’s phone number. Studying, in the midst of such a crisis, felt as absurd as trying to toast bread as the house was burning down. She took to stalking Astor Towers, pounding on Roux’s door—“Goddamn it, I know you’re in there!”—but he never answered. No matter how long she waited or how hard she pressed her ear to the door, she heard nothing from the other side. Reckless plans flew through her mind in lieu of sleep. She and Gideon could go off the grid and live without computers or phones so Roux would never be able to find them. She could fake their deaths. She could go to the FBI and enroll in the Witness Protection Program in exchange for giving them information on Roux and the Morettis. But Roux could still make calls and send letters from prison, couldn’t he? When she realized that there was no way to prevent two people from making contact in this day and age, her hope of changing Roux’s mind turned into fantasies of how to punish him afterward. Tarring and feathering. Chinese water torture. Taking a machete to his precious cars—but no, he could just buy more. Afterward. What a terrible word. She couldn’t stop herself from looking down the fissure that would soon divide the before and afterward, the Confession itself. In how many ways could Gideon leave her? In one version, he was angry, he called her a slut, a whore, an immoral woman, he shouted that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again. In another version, he was heartbroken—he hadn’t thought she was capable of causing him such pain, he would never forgive her, he wished they’d never met. The last scenario—the one that kept her tossing into the night—was the one where he was indifferent. I never really loved you. You’re not the girl I thought you were.

One evening, the thought came to her that if she quit smoking, she would be able to regain control of her life. Since she’d lit her first cigarette in Roux’s bedroom at fourteen, she’d never gone longer than a week without smoking. She decided to quit cold turkey. Impose her will upon her weak body. She took to walking the streets. Every corner she turned, every back alley, in front of every bar and club and café, she saw people smoking in their warm circle of companionship and commiseration, a commiseration she was now excluded from. Without even thinking, she drifted up to an old man with a tattoo sleeve and a chef’s apron and asked if she could bum one off him. He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his back pocket. The decisive way he clicked his lighter and shielded her flame from the wind felt like the greatest kindness she’d ever been shown. The minute she threw the stub into the sewer, she hurried into a pharmacy and bought her own pack of Lucky Strikes, practically salivating, her hands shaking, pupils dilating. She smoked half the pack walking back home, one cigarette after the other, overcome with a wonderful oblivion. When she finished, she called Roux. He didn’t answer. This was expected. She had, after all, failed to quit smoking. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I can quit.

Andrea came home from her date at two in the morning and found Ivy playing solitaire in the living room. An empty bottle of red wine was lying on its side on the carpet. Andrea sniffed the bottle, then made a face. “Is this what I used to make beef bourguignon last week?” Ivy shrugged. Maybe it was the alcohol blurring her vision, but Andrea appeared to be radiating lustful vigor, her shiny hair tumbling in loose waves, carrying her flesh not with her usual self-consciousness but with a sensual ease that spoke of a delightful evening around a fire, with copious bottles of wine, having sex until dawn, sex Ivy was no longer having with anyone.

“He asked me today how a person knows if they’ve found the right one,” said Andrea.

“Who is this?” Ivy was in the middle of contemplating if she could pay one of the gangsters to stand in front of Astor Towers and send her updates on Roux’s whereabouts so she might ambush him.

“The guy I’ve been seeing, Norman.”

“I can’t keep track of your man parade,” said Ivy.

Andrea, too giddy to be offended, was only too willing to relay to Ivy everything about Norman Moorefield she’d probably already said countless times before. They’d met at Dave Finley’s party two weeks ago. He was involved with the start-up in some important capacity, blah, blah, he was so romantic, she had never felt this way about anyone, and did Ivy think they were moving too fast, or if you know, then you know? A warm cheek pressed against Ivy’s shoulder. “I want to have children so bad,” came a tortured whisper… Ivy struggled to open her eyes; she felt something wet on her skin…

She woke up the next day gasping from another sweaty nightmare. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Andrea must have covered her with the throw. The deck of poker cards was splayed out on the coffee table in a perfect fan except for the queen of hearts, which had been torn into little pieces and piled on the side. Had she done that? She vaguely recalled being unable to stop moving her hands, shuffling cards, painting her nails, picking at her cuticles until they bled. She went to the bathroom and observed the ghastly sight, thrown into relief by the harsh midday light: a white and bloated face, red-rimmed lids, swollen lips, a monstrous pimple growing on her chin. Checking her phone, she saw it was already three in the afternoon.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. The gnawing pain in her stomach suddenly pierced her from belly to head, leaving her doubled over the sink. She went to the kitchen and dug out a can of Progresso soup and an old packet of oyster crackers from the takeout drawer with all the delivery menus. Food tasted strange these days—tinny, everything flavored with anchovy. Her teeth felt tender, she chewed the crackers very slowly; when she brushed her teeth afterward, her gums bled and wouldn’t stop until she stuffed cotton balls in her mouth.

Gideon came over Saturday evening… or was it Sunday? Ivy peeked at her phone underneath her pillow. It was Sunday. One week left. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Maybe she could beg Roux for more time, say she was ill. Surely he would grant her that at least.

Outside, it was hailing. The weatherman that morning had announced that another cold spell was coming from the north. Heavy snowstorms all week. The weatherman was her only companion these days; he talked to her for hours in his repetitive but soothing voice, always delivering warnings: cloudy skies… visibility poor… lows around twelve degrees with windchill…

There was a deep V between Gideon’s brows.

“Sorry?” said Ivy.

“I said are you feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Those look quite itchy.”

Ivy covered the hives around her wrists with the sleeves of her bathrobe.

“What happened?”

“Allergic reaction to a bracelet,” she said.

“I noticed you had something similar on your neck last week.”

Ivy’s heart lurched. She’d thought she’d covered all the bruises and marks from her fight with Roux with concealer, but had Gideon seen through it? Had she not been careful enough? But his attentive, serene face revealed nothing.

“Have you been eating? You look thin.” He sniffed the air. “Is your neighbor having a cookout? It smells like something’s burning.”

“I think Andrea was cooking earlier.”

“Have you seen a doctor yet? You feel a bit feverish.”

“No.”

“You might need antibiotics to kick this cold.”

“I said I’m fine!” Instantly engulfed with remorse at the way he recoiled from her, she softened her tone. “I don’t have a fever. I promise I’ll go see the doctor if I get one… Anyway, tell me about your day.”

But her attention immediately wandered away from Gideon’s voice. She studied his face. Such a wonderfully symmetrical and right face. She traced in her mind the aristocratic brow, down the slope of his nose, brushed invisible fingers over his long, brown lashes, the sharp point of his chin, the plump dent of his Cupid’s bow… Shuddering, she realized she was memorizing his features for future recollection.

It was silent. Gideon was looking at her. Ivy realized he was waiting for a response.

“Should I let you sleep?” he said quietly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Did she want sleep? Yes, she wanted to sleep and wake up and have Roux Roman be dead.

“I feel bad I won’t be here for the next two weeks.”

Her eyes flew open. “Wait, where’re you going?”

He smiled ruefully. “I suppose it’s dreadfully dull to listen to me talk about work all the time.”

Ivy dropped her gaze guiltily.