Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter One

Lucy

The buttons on the elevator panel light up one by one, the faint red glow an ominous warning in the back of my mind. The floors seem to pass by faster and faster the higher we get. To my left, I watch as a man in a suit exits, giving me a nod and a quick once-over as his foot crosses the threshold. When the doors close, I'm left alone in the metal box, heading for the top floor.

A floor I've visited often, but not for quite some time.

A floor in a building I never considered I'd visit again.

The envelope in my purse is like a lead weight, pulling at the tendons on my shoulder. It's a surprise the elevator can lift me with the amount of debt I've got riding in my bag. It's not my debt by name, but by choice. I am my sister's keeper, after all.

When the stainless-steel doors open once more, I'm greeted by a modern waiting room with leather seats, marble floors, and a fountain trickling in the corner that isn't inhabited by questionable art pieces.

"Welcome to Orlova Realty," a chipper young woman greets from behind a long desk. Her blonde hair is pin straight, resting just below her ironed lapels. She's the perfect face to set professionals at ease. "How may I assist you?"

My sneakers land on the floor, propelling me forward with far more confidence than what resides in my heart. I remind myself that I'm here for a purpose. And when I think about the envelope in my purse—and the astronomical number owed to the clinic—my hands stop shaking, my jaw sets, and my lungs fill with air.

"I'm here to see Mother Hen," I state, setting my hands on the cool counter. The chipped nail polish and overgrown cuticle would be cause for embarrassment, but Henrietta will have me fixed up in no time. She expects nothing less than perfect from her girls.

The blonde's eyebrows lift infinitesimally. I don't recognize her from before, so she must be a newer hire. "And who may I say is requesting an appointment?"

"Lucy Nyx," I answer, letting the name roll off my tongue with ease. It's a name I haven't used in three years. It's a name I despise. I was sure I'd never hear it, never utter it, again.

But alas, here I am.

The receptionist makes a quick call, then buzzes me through the frosted glass door to the left. I make my way into a long hall, my footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. As I pass closed doors, I hear faint chatter and a few snips from a pair of scissors. Henrietta does most of her grooming—literal and figurative—inhouse, where even the hairdressers and stylists have signed non-disclosure agreements. Nothing that happens within these walls is spoken of in the outside world.

I reach a door at the end of the hall, forgoing hesitation as I knock three times.

"Come in, dear," a light, airy voice calls out.