She’d slept badly after the fiasco with John last night. So bit by bit—with eyeliner, shadow, mascara, blush, and lipstick—she carefully reconstructed her professional face. She would need every bit of cover she could find today, in case she ran into John again at the Firstborn’s office. Outside the sun was lifting behind the Manhattan skyline. A seemingly endless labyrinth of glass and steel canyons. Cold and lonely, a metropolitan jungle filled with people who treated one another as props and obstacles. A forest of human souls that couldn’t be seen through the crowded trees of people. Trista’s phone beeped electronically, the red light on its exterior flashing. She moved toward the hotel coffee table and scooped up the phone, answering. “Trista Brightling,” she said efficiently. “Trista,” a voice said enthusiastically. “Vince Sobel here. Meeting today. Conference room—noon.” Trista thought for a moment.
