Iris walked to the garage complex. She pressed the button on the intercom.

"Arthur," she said. "I need a car to the station."

There was a pause, filled with static. Then Arthur's voice came through, sounding strained. "I apologize, Madam. Mr. Zimmerman has just frozen your transport privileges."

Iris looked at the row of gleaming luxury vehicles behind the glass doors. She let out a dry laugh. "Is this part of the performance review too?"

"Sir says... if you wish to go to the city, you can walk. Or you can come back inside and apologize."

Iris released the button, cutting him off.

She tightened her coat against the wind and turned toward the driveway. It was two miles to the main gate.

The sky was a bruised purple, threatening rain. Within minutes, the threat became a promise. A cold drizzle began to fall, soaking into her canvas bag.

Her sneakers weren't made for long treks on asphalt. The friction burned her heels with every step.

Up in the study, Francisco watched the security feed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"She's walking," Arthur reported, looking at the screen.

"Let her walk," Francisco said, taking a sip. "She won't make it two miles before she comes crying back."

A delivery truck roared past Iris, its tires hitting a pothole filled with muddy water. The spray hit her full on, coating her jeans and coat in brown sludge.

Iris stumbled, her knees buckling. She caught herself. She didn't stop to wipe it off. She just kept walking.

Ten minutes later, a low purr of an engine came up behind her. A red Ferrari slowed to a crawl. The window rolled down.

Annalise smiled from the driver's seat. It was a smile full of pity and poison. "Need a lift? I can drop you at the train station. You look like a drowned rat."

Iris wiped wet hair from her face. She looked at the pristine leather interior of the car. "No thanks," she said. "I don't ride in garbage trucks."

Annalise's face contorted. She slammed her foot on the gas. The tires squealed, kicking up gravel that stung Iris's shins. Exhaust fumes washed over her.

Iris coughed, bending over, hands on her knees. But when she straightened up, her spine was straighter than before.

It took an hour. Her heels were bleeding inside her shoes. Her clothes were heavy with water. But finally, the wrought iron gates loomed ahead.

She stepped onto the public road. She pulled out her phone. The signal bars flickered from "No Service" to one bar.

Her fingers shook as she dialed.

"Hello?" A loud, brash voice answered.

"Chloe," Iris whispered. Her voice cracked.

"Baby? Why are you calling me this early? Is everything okay?"

"Come get me," Iris said, fighting the sob that was clawing its way up her throat. "I'm at the junction of Route 27."

"You're crying," Chloe said, her voice dropping an octave. "What did that bastard do?"

"I'm free," Iris said. "But I need a ride."

She hung up and slid down the metal post of a road sign. She sat in the wet grass, hugging her knees.

A black sedan appeared in the distance. Iris's head snapped up. Her hand shot out, grabbing a jagged rock from the ground. Her muscles coiled, ready to strike. It was a reflex, old and buried, screaming danger.

The car wooshed past. Just a stranger.

Iris dropped the rock. Her hand was trembling. She stared at her palm, wondering when she had become this person again.

The screech of tires announced Chloe's arrival. The beat-up Ford skidded to a halt on the shoulder, gravel spraying.

Chloe Vance jumped out before the engine even died. She took one look at Iris-soaked, muddy, shivering-and her face crumbled.

"Oh my god," Chloe breathed. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Iris's wet coat. "You look like a stray cat."

Iris melted. The tension holding her upright finally snapped. She leaned her entire weight against her friend. "Just drive. Anywhere."

They scrambled into the car. Chloe cranked the heat up to the maximum setting and threw a moth-eaten blanket over Iris's lap.

As the car merged onto the highway, heading toward the city, Chloe gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "I'm going to burn his house down. I swear to god, Iris."

"Don't waste the gas," Iris said, staring out the window at the gray blur of trees. "I just want a divorce."

"Do you have money?" Chloe asked gently.

Iris opened her canvas bag. She pulled out a small wallet. "About two hundred dollars in cash."

Chloe let out a long breath. "Okay. My place is a shoebox, but the couch is yours."

"I need a job," Iris said. "Immediately."

"Your degree is in interior design," Chloe said, glancing at her. "But you haven't worked in three years. The gap..."

"No design," Iris cut in. "Takes too long to get paid. I'm going to play piano."

Chloe blinked. "Piano? Your hands are insured for signing checks, not playing dive bars."

Iris looked down at her hands. They were long, slender, and deceptively strong. "These hands can do a lot more than you think."

They arrived at Chloe's apartment in Queens. It was a fourth-floor walk-up. The air inside smelled of stale takeout and cheap air freshener. It was cramped, messy, and loud.

Iris loved it.

She started clearing off the couch, folding the blanket neatly. Chloe handed her a mug of instant coffee. It tasted like burnt dirt, but it was hot.

Iris opened Chloe's laptop. As it booted up, she instinctively ran a diagnostic, her fingers flying across the keys in a series of commands Chloe didn't recognize. She cleared the cache, checked for spyware, and encrypted the connection before even opening a browser. It was a reflex she hadn't needed in years, but one she'd never forgotten. She went straight to Craigslist. Her eyes scanned the listings with predatory focus.

Urgent. Pianist needed. The Velvet Lounge. High-end clientele. Must be skilled.

The Velvet Lounge. A watering hole for Wall Street wolves. The tips would be good.

Iris dialed the number. She dropped her voice, making it sound huskier, older. She asked for an audition.

"Come now," the voice on the other end barked.

Iris went to the bathroom. She stripped off her wet clothes. She borrowed a black dress from Chloe's closet. It was tight, shorter than anything she had worn in the Hamptons.

She pulled her hair up into a severe bun. She applied makeup-dark eyeliner, red lips. Heavy. A mask.

When she walked out, Chloe whistled. "Whoa. Dark Iris activated."

"It's for survival," Iris said. Her eyes were cold in the mirror.

She walked out of the apartment and into the Queens night. The wind was still cold, but she didn't feel it. She was going to war.

Francisco sat in his corner office, the Manhattan skyline spread out behind him like a conquered kingdom. He stared at the tablet on his desk.

Arthur stood by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Has she returned?" Francisco asked without turning around.

"No, sir. But... we received an email from Madam's legal representation."

Francisco spun his chair around. "Representation? How can she afford a lawyer? Legal Aid?"

"No," Arthur said. "She drafted it herself. The formatting is... surprisingly professional."

Francisco swiped the tablet open. He scanned the document. It was short. Brutal. No asset division. Immediate dissolution.

He laughed, tossing the tablet onto the mahogany desk. "She's playing hard to get. She thinks if she asks for nothing, I'll beg her to stay."

"Sir?"

"Let her wait," Francisco said, turning back to the window. "Tell her I'm fully booked this week. We can discuss it next month."

"But sir," Arthur hesitated. "She cleared out her things..."

"Do as I say," Francisco snapped. "Cut her supplementary cards. Freeze any joint accounts. If she has a trust, lock it."

"Yes, sir." Arthur retreated.

Miles away, in the dim, smoky interior of The Velvet Lounge, Iris sat at a Steinway that had seen better days.

The manager, a rotund Italian man named Marco, crossed his arms. "Play something. Don't bore me."

Iris placed her hands on the keys. For a second, she closed her eyes. Then she struck.

She didn't play Mozart. She didn't play Bach. She played a jazz arrangement of Radiohead's "No Surprises." The chords were dissonant, haunting, filled with a quiet rage.

A job that slowly kills you...

The bartenders stopped wiping glasses. The few patrons turned their heads. The music filled the room, heavy and suffocatingly beautiful.

When the last note faded, Marco clapped once. "You're hired. Fifty an hour. Tips are yours. Start tonight."

"Deal," Iris said. "But I wear a mask."

Marco shrugged. "Whatever. Adds to the mystery."

Her phone buzzed in her bag. An email from Arthur. Mr. Zimmerman's schedule is full for the foreseeable future.

Iris read it and let out a dry chuckle. "Full schedule," she muttered. "Busy keeping Annalise warm."

She typed a reply: I can wait. But I'm not disappearing.

That night, she wore a black lace masquerade mask. Her fingers flew across the keys. She felt a control she hadn't felt in years.

Men in expensive suits sent drinks to the piano. She sent them back.

At 2 AM, she counted her tips. Two hundred and forty dollars in cash. The bills were grimy and smelled of beer.

She held them in her hand. They felt heavier than the Black Amex Francisco had given her. They felt real.

Francisco returned to the Hamptons estate. The house was vast, silent. He walked into the bedroom. The empty space on the nightstand where the ring used to be seemed to scream at him.

He felt a spike of irritation. He pulled out his phone and dialed Annalise.

"Dinner tomorrow," he said. "Le Coucou. Invite Muller. We need to close that German deal."