Page 8 of With a Vengeance

Four

Sally Lawrencehadnoticed the lack of information regarding the return to Philadelphia. She came anyway. She knows a shakedown when she sees one. And the note on the back of the invitation made it clear this one would be foolish to ignore.

Remember the old you? I do.

Sally now stares at the handwritten message, thinking not about who sent it—she’ll find that out soon enough—but the answer to the question it poses.

Yeah, she remembers.

Despite all the great lengths she’s taken to forget.

The first big change was her name. She goes by Sally now, abandoning the nickname used by everyone from her sister to her boss to her dates.

Sal.

As in “Keep your expectations low, Sal. That way you won’t be disappointed.” And “Fetch me another cup of coffee, Sal, and close the door behind you.” And “Gee, you’re a great gal, Sal, but I’m looking for someone different.”

Well, someone different is what she became. The moment she was officially rich, Sally marched into the city’s ritziest beauty parlor and said, “Turn me into Veronica Lake.” The beauticians tried their best. After hours of bleaching and plucking and spackling her face with makeup, Sally looked in the mirror and hardly recognized herself.

The transformation had continued. She whittled down her figure through a combination of crash diets, pills, and calisthenics. She bought new clothes to wrap around her new body. Gone were the frumpy knits and tweeds that made her look twice her age. Sally now wears only the latest, most expensive fashions. Her current outfit is an ivory wool bouclé suit with mother-of-pearl buttons and a matching handbag. Even though the salesgirl who sold her the ensemble swore it makes her look younger, Sally begs to differ. She thinks she looks like a rich spinster, which is closer to the truth than she cares to admit.

Sally now studies herself in the mirror, wondering if she should change. The options are plentiful. Because she’ll be winging it once she reaches Chicago, she packed for every occasion. Two suitcases, one trunk, and a makeup case.

She roots through one of the suitcases, finding a flask glinting like a polished nickel at the bottom of the bag. She uncaps the top, tips it back, and takes a deep swallow. The sweet burn of whiskey spreading through her chest brings with it a sigh of relief.

God, she needed that.

Not just to get through whatever the journey is going to bring but to help her deal with being on the train itself. She has a lot of memories of the Phoenix, all of them tainted by what happened. Before boarding, she feared they would come back to haunt her. Dozens of memories, spinning around her like phantoms and eating away at her conscience until she could no longer take it.

When she eventually did step onto the train—after steelingherself with a stiff drink at the station bar, of course—Sally felt…nothing. No memories, good or bad, and definitely no guilt. She hopes it will stay that way—and that the journey won’t be something she later regrets.

Looking back on it, Sally sees her life as a long series of regrets, starting with the night she entered that bar twelve years ago. She’d been so young then. So foolish. Just a woman searching for something primal and forbidden. She’d found it all right, leading to still more regrets.

She remembers staring at the photographs of that night, wanting to both weep and throw up and flat-out murder the unctuous man showing them to her.

“I can make these go away,” he said. “In exchange for a favor.”

Sally told him yes, that she’d do anything, just please end this.

Another regret, for he’d made her go through with it. Still, he kept his word—and made Sally ridiculously wealthy in the process.

And that’s her biggest regret of all.

Sure, she’s rich, but it came at the expense of so many others. All those boys dead. A family ruined. One that, if she dares to think about it, had treated her better than her own.

A memory arrives, sudden and uninvited. Her riding the Phoenix on its maiden voyage, in a room just like the one she currently occupies. It might even be the same room. They look identical. Bed. Chair. Bathroom. Curtains at windows that can be slid open by pulling down on them. There are two windows in the room, one by the swivel chair and the other by the bed. Only the window by the chair is open in her memory, letting in spring air that cools her and the girl next to her as they pass a crowd gathered along the tracks.

Wave to all the people, Annie.

Sally washes the memory away with more whiskey, noticing her watch as she tips back the flask. Almost eight.

She needs to be in the first-class lounge, presumably to find out who the hell invited her here.

Sally drops the flask into her handbag and leaves the room. Outside, she sways from one side of the corridor to the other. While she wants to think it’s from the rocking of the train, she knows the cause are the sips of whiskey and the drink—okay,drinks—she’d consumed before boarding. Still swaying, she vows to drink less while in Chicago. But seeing how she’s not there yet, there’s no harm in taking one last sip from the flask.

One sip turns into two as Sally moves through the accordion-like tunnel connecting her car with the one in front of it. After drifting down another tight corridor—and one final gulp of whiskey—she returns the flask to her handbag, squeezes through another accordion, and pushes into the first-class lounge.

Two men are inside, both of whom she once knew—and had no desire to ever see again.

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