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Guilt starts to creep in anyway. Quiet, familiar. This is when I usually excuse myself, pop a Xanax, and run home to take care of whatever she needs. But not tonight. Tonight I push it down and nod as Lynn, one of Annette's neighbors, chimes in with, "He's a keeper." Air-kissing my cheek.

She's in head-to-toe athleisure that probably costs more than my house payment. "My Mark asked for a spreadsheet justification."

Josie snorts into her champagne. "Mine wanted to come."

They all laugh. I smile, already scanning the room. Annette knows that I'm a purse whore. I have them all on my Pinterest boards. Gucci, Chanel, LV.

Years ago, I owned two Michael Kors and one Coach purse. Razor was generous like that when he was in the right mood. The MC always seemed tostumbleacross things like lost wallets, purses, and cash that didn't belong to anyone who could come looking for it. Sometimes bigger things, a Rolex, a case of iPhones. That's a part of my old life I miss. The ease of it. The luxury. I'm just not willing to pay the kind of price Razor put on it.

It doesn't take long to spot the purses. They are displayed along the dining table like sacred artifacts. Rows of them. Chanel quilting. LV monograms. Dior saddle bags. Celine totes. The lighting is strategic, soft but bright enough to make the hardware gleam. At the center of it all stands Helena, our hostess, as hernametag calls her out. She's older than I expected. Mid-forties maybe. Dark hair in a sleek bob. Leopard-print blouse tucked into black trousers. A golden belt with two interlacedCs takes all the attention.

"Ladies," she purrs, holding up a structured black bag. "Mirror quality. Imported hardware. You could walk into Saks tomorrow, and no one would blink."

The women murmur approvingly. Lynn hands me a glass of champagne, which I absentmindedly take. My eyes have already zeroed in on a Gucci purse. The one that is on top of my Pinterest board.

Helena's eyes land on me.

New prey.

She glides closer, scanning me quickly, taking in my simple blouse, my careful makeup, my sensible heels. Her eyes follow mine. Finding the object of my desires.

"This Gucci," she liftsthe onefrom the table. Blood red leather. Gold detail. "Would look so good on you."

My breath catches before I can stop it. It's beautiful. The kind of red that doesn't whisper. It declares.

"And it's only a hundred and twenty dollars," Helena adds smoothly. "And you know what? I'll throw the matching wallet in too."

She snaps it open. Red interior. Gold zipper.

A hundred and twenty dollars.

My brain does the math instantly. The same amount as two of Mom's specialist copays. Or almost. Thank God she has insurance. But the copays are bleeding us dry. Therapy. Gastroenterologist. Cardiologist. Themysteryrash that is most likely from stress.

She doesn't have a dime to her name. She owns her house, but she rents it out. The rent covers her health insurance, with a couple hundred left over each month. That's it.

Pete's in charge of our finances and gives himself and me each a twenty-five-dollar-a-week allowance. No questions asked. Mine goes to lunches and lattes. Pete, being Pete, saves his. Stoically. Every week. The only time he uses it is when he goes to get a haircut.

When I was leaving tonight, he handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill and winked. "Seriously. Have fun."

That hundred didn't just appear. That's four weeks of him not buying coffee. Not buying anything. That's Pete. Good. Reliable. Sweet.

The red leather gleams under the light.

"Try it on," Annette urges.

I slide it over my shoulder. It fits. Of course it does. It transforms my reflection in the glass cabinet. I look… different. Sharper. Alive.

Annette claps her hands. "Oh my God, Audra. That's you."

Lynn leans in. "It makes your eyes pop."

Josie tips her head. "It's dangerous."

Dangerous.

The word curls low in my stomach. Funny how that word used to sound like a promise instead of a warning. I didn't know the difference back then. I wonder if I would now. Or if danger is ever really that bad.

It feels like a drug sometimes, like an ex-smoker catching a whiff of someone else's cigarette. You know better. You remember exactly how it ends. Yet… something in you leans closer, takes a deep inhale. Because not all danger is the same. This—this room, these women, the quiet thrill of something just a little illegal—this isn't the kind that destroys you. This is controlled. Contained. Safe.