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Blane doesn't reveal what precipitated the around-the-clock security detail—his abduction when he was ten. The two men didn't hurt him. They bought him Happy Meals and let him watch TV as their bumbling plan to lure his mom into peril came to an abrupt end when burly men in night vision goggles riddled them with bullets. Blane doesn't think about it that much these days. Doesn't feel traumatized or haunted by what happened. It seems more like a dream. But it was pure gold for his college essay.

"The only good thing I ever got out of a security detail," Blane adds, "was at Disneyland when I was a kid: We got to cut to the front of the line on every ride."

Mark is distracted. He's looking over Blane's shoulder at something.

Blane twists around and sees Stella walking toward them, her long auburn hair tangled, like she just woke up. She wears a shirt that reads, DON'T TELL ME TO SMILE.

She fast-walks over, takes a seat next to them.

"Sup?" Blane asks.

Stella's expression is just short of panic. She leans in, says, "It's Natasha. She still hasn't come home. And Libby...she's freaking out."

Blane looks at Mark, who puts down his slice of pizza.

Blane keeps his voice steady. "You just need to be cool."

"But Libby, she says she's gonna... I think we need to—"

Blane puts his hands out, palms down: "Stick to the story like we agreed."

His gut clenches, but he makes sure to smile reassuringly. He warned Stella—warned them all—that Natasha Belov was bad news. Bad, bad news.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MALDONADOS

The ascent is bumpy, but David doesn't mind. It's rare that he gets to fly private, so he can't complain. His wife Nina sits tight-jawed next to him in the luxurious cabin. He decides not to call her on the pouting, lest they get into a fight in front of their hosts, Brad and Jade, who sit across from them in buttery leather seats. Jade is stunning in an overdone way—plunging neckline, contoured makeup, short skirt with tall boots. Brad, with his meaty face and paunch, is much less so. But that's often how it goes, David has learned in his twenty years as a plastic surgeon.

"Thank you again for the lift," he says to the couple.

Brad and Jade raise their champagne flutes in acknowledgement. A leggy flight attendant mistakes it as a signal that they need a refill and ambles over and tops off their glasses.

"I was headed to Frisco for business, so it's no problem," Brad says.

David can't remember the last time he'd heard someone call San Francisco "Frisco"—probably in a movie from the seventies.

With his shirt unbuttoned too low, laying bare his dark mat of chest hair, Brad has that vibe. A relic from another era.

Brad continues: "And after what you did for Jade—for me—how could I not?"

David is unsure what he means.

Jade cups her breasts with her hands. "They're perfect, absolutely perfect. All my friends are asking about the artist who sculpted these masterpieces."

David doesn't need to look over at his wife to know the expression on her face. He simply smiles. His father taught him to always accept a compliment.

"The best part," Brad says, "is that they're so damn upright."

He removes something from his shirt pocket. It takes David a moment to realize that it's a vial of white powder. Brad sprinkles a jagged line on his wife's chest, leans over, and snorts the coke. David can't help but look at Nina. Her eyes are wide. David and his wife aren't prudes, but they're not drug people, either. When David looks back, there's already another line on Jade's chest. Brad gestures for David to take it.

"Oh, thank you," David pauses, trying to formulate his excuse, "but Jade is a patient and it wouldn't be appropriate as her physician to—"

Before he finishes the sentence, Nina has leaned forward and buried her face in Jade's cleavage.

Jade arches her back, laughing as Nina does the line.

"Now we've got a party!" Brad says.