Page 1 of Dirty Deal

One

Lena

Before the airplane engine shuts down, before the line down the central aisle begins to shuffle forward, before I’ve even scrubbed ten hours’ worth of flight bleariness from my eyes—my phone buzzes.

And buzzes. And buzzes. And buzzes some more, vibrating against my hip. I ignore it, yawning so wide my jaw cracks. Shouldn’t have switched it on so soon.

“Excuse me, can you pass that—”

“Ma’am? It’s time to wake up. We’ve landed.”

“No, my bag is the gray one—”

“What time is it here?”

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

Less than ten minutes back on home soil, and I already miss the Alps. The crisp mountain air; those huge blue skies; the little puffs of white cloud skidding past overhead. Springy green grass and damp rock and cutesy towns of wooden cabins.

And most importantly:space.Peace and quiet and no strangers pressed up against my back and sides, breathing all over me with their stale morning breath.

I want to go back.

My heart pangs in my chest as I picture it: marching off this plane and straight back into the terminal to buy a return ticket to Switzerland. Switching my buzzing phone off for good and tossing it in the nearest trash can.

But I can’t do that, no matter how sweet that daydream tastes.

My parents need me. I owe them this.

Honestly, I never should have left them alone for a year in the first place. This whole mess is on me.

The plane empties slowly, everyone inching forward in a tired line, our sagging shoulders slung with backpacks and cross-body bags. We all avoid each other’s gaze, none of us wanting to make eye contact after ten hours sitting upright in our clothes, breathing recycled air and drooling whenever we fell asleep to last summer’s action movies.

My stomach gurgles noisily but I pretend not to hear it, moving forward another step. Plane food is not real food, and I’ve barely eaten three mouthfuls since boarding. I can just imagine what my father’s ex-protege, Weston, would say about that if he were here—Too spoiled for a microwave meal, princess? Better to starve than slum it?

Even in my imagination, that man’s deep, gravelly voice sends a shiver down my limbs. It’s good that he’s not around anymore to witness this, really. The Merritt family’s fall from grace.

Would Weston be surprised? Or did he see this coming all along? Is that why he bought our casino and then stopped taking our calls a year ago?

My chest gives another pang, but I tell myself it’s still about missing Switzerland. Obviously.

The plane funnels us down a tunnel into arrivals. The floor tiles are gray, the walls are gray, and the clouds outside are extra gray. I move through the airport in a daze, showing my passport and collecting my suitcase, before finally spilling outside into the wind and rain.

For a moment, old habits take over. I stand there at the edge of the sidewalk like a complete idiot, waiting for a private driver who is never gonna come. Waiting to be whisked away to my plush family townhouse, with its chandeliers and hardwood floors and ivy vines climbing pale stone. To the staff who will carry my bags and launder my clothes.

Then my phone buzzes against my hip for the millionth time, and reality comes crashing back down on me like a landslide. There’s no private driver anymore. No staff at all. In the space of one year, my parents blew it all. They’re still in the townhouse, but barely.

Head pounding, stomach roiling, I turn and wheel my suitcase all the way to the bus stop.

* * *

I stand on the townhouse steps and ring the bell six times before anyone answers. My parents aren’t used to this yet either: answering their own door, picking up their own groceries, weathering the knowing stares of their well-off neighbors. Most of the texts I checked on the bus were about how terrible it’s been. I stared at the screen for a long time, thumbs poised to reply, before giving up and tucking my phone away.

What is there to say, after all? My parents were two of the wealthiest people in the city not that long ago. They hadeverything they could possibly ever need. All they had to do was not do anything stupid.

Now they’re tugging their own heavy front door open, their clothes wrinkled, wide-eyed with dismay at how low they’ve fallen—before collapsing on me like the sobbing survivors of an earthquake.

“Lena!”

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