The bathroom mirror was cracked down the middle, splitting Karen's reflection into two disjointed halves. One eye looked tired; the other looked dead.

She turned on the tap. The water sputtered, brown at first, then clear and freezing.

Karen took a deep breath. She reached for her right hand and began to peel the glove off her left.

She had to clean it. Infection in this damp basement was a death sentence.

The leather slid off.

She forced herself to look. Even after a year, it still made her stomach turn. Her left hand ended abruptly at the knuckle of the pinky finger. The skin was scarred, puckered and shiny, twisted like a knot of old rope.

Flashback.

The prison shower. The steam obscuring the cameras. Three women. The leader, a woman with a spiderweb tattoo on her neck, holding the rusty gardening shears.

"Word is, the King wants you to have a hard time, Princess," the woman had sneered. "And your brother missed a payment. So, we're collecting a reminder."

The crunch of bone.

Karen splashed freezing water onto her face, gasping. She scrubbed her skin until it was red. She dried the stump quickly, terrified Hoke might walk in, and pulled the black glove back on. She smoothed the leather over the empty space where her finger used to be.

"Mommy! Breakfast!" Hoke called from the main room.

He had made toast. It was burnt, and the milk was watered down to make it last longer, but to Karen, it was a feast.

"Eat up," she said, pushing her slice toward him. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat for the interview," Hoke insisted. He pointed to a piece of paper on the table. "Look, I drew a house for you."

Karen picked it up. It wasn't a child's scribble. It was a structured drawing of a skyscraper, using perspective that a five-year-old shouldn't understand.

"It has a garden on the roof," Hoke explained. "So you don't have to go to the park to see trees."

Karen's throat tightened. "It's beautiful, Hoke."

She got dressed in her only suit. It was from a thrift store, a little too big in the shoulders, but clean. She sprayed a little lavender water on her wrists to mask the smell of the damp apartment.

"Stay inside," she told Hoke, kneeling to look him in the eye. "Do not open the door for anyone. Not even the landlord. If there's an emergency, you call Mrs. Gorsky upstairs, okay?"

"I know, Mommy. I'm not a baby."

She left him sitting on the floor with his books. Books she had stolen from the library because she couldn't get a card without a valid ID.

First stop: Danny.

Danny lived in a loft above a failing auto repair shop in Queens. It was hot, smelling of oil and exhaust.

Karen climbed the metal stairs. She found Danny strapped to his chair, the dialysis machine humming rhythmically. He looked worse than last week. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken.

"Hey, kid," Danny wheezed.

"Hey." Karen sat on a crate beside him. She took his hand-her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.

"How's Hoke?"

"He's... smart. Too smart." Karen sighed. "Danny, I have an interview today. A small studio in SoHo. Your friend Mike set it up."

Danny squeezed her hand. "You're a genius, Karen. They'll see that. 'Dawn' was the best designer New York never knew."

"Dawn is dead," Karen said sharply. "I'm just Karen now. The ex-con."

"Isaiah paid for the machine, didn't he?" Danny said, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best money could buy. But I told you, I won't set foot in a King-funded clinic. I'd rather die in this garage than be another one of his charities."

"Don't let them break you," Danny whispered, his breath catching. "We survived the King. We can survive this."

Karen left the garage feeling heavy. She took the subway into Manhattan. The car was crowded. Bodies pressed against bodies. She kept her left hand shoved deep in her pocket.

Above the heads of the commuters, a digital screen played the news.

Isaiah King unveils plans for the new 'Villarreal Tower'. A tribute to his late fiancée.

There he was. On the screen. He looked older. Harder. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes like flint. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Karen would earn in a lifetime.

"He's so handsome," a woman next to Karen sighed. "Tragic, though. Losing his baby mama like that."

Karen pulled her hat down low. She couldn't breathe.

She arrived at the studio in SoHo. It was a walk-up, cluttered with fabric samples and half-finished mannequins. The owner, a man named Mr. Henderson, was sweaty and overweight.

He looked at her portfolio. He looked at her sketch. His eyes lit up.

"This is... this is incredible," he muttered. "The lines... the minimalism. It reminds me of that mysterious designer from a few years back. Dawn?"

"I have a style," Karen said neutrally.

Henderson looked at her resume. He frowned. "Gap in employment. Five years. Correctional Facility?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Manslaughter."

Henderson dropped the resume like it was burning. He leaned back, looking her up and down. The admiration in his eyes shifted to something sleazy.

"Well," he said, licking his lips. "It's a liability. Hiring a felon. Clients don't like it."

"I can work from home. I don't need to meet clients. Just look at the designs."

Henderson stood up. He walked around the desk. He stood too close to her. She could smell his stale coffee breath.

"I could take a risk," he said, lowering his voice. "But you'd have to make it worth my while. A pretty woman like you... surely you learned how to please men in prison?"

He reached out to touch her waist.

Karen slapped his hand away. The sound was loud in the small room.

"My hand is for drawing," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "Not for touching pigs."

"Get out!" Henderson yelled, his face turning purple. "You ungrateful bitch! You're a murderer! Nobody will hire you! You belong in the gutter!"

Karen turned and ran. She ran down the stairs, out into the street, the insults echoing in her ears.

Karen walked until her legs burned. She ended up in a small park near the Flatiron District. The wind was biting, whipping her coat around her legs.

She sat on a bench and pulled out her sketchbook.

She needed to create. It was the only way to silence the noise in her head. Her gloved hand held the paper down while her right hand flew across the page. Charcoal lines intersected, forming a sharp, aggressive structure. It was a fortress. A place where no one could hurt her.

She was so focused she didn't notice the traffic light turn red on the street in front of her.

A black Maybach purred to a halt at the crosswalk.

Inside, Isaiah King was rubbing his temples. A headache had been throbbing behind his eyes since the morning meeting.

He glanced out the window, bored.

His gaze swept over the park. The bare trees. The pigeons. The woman on the bench.

He froze.

The curve of her neck. The way her hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned over a sketchbook. The intensity of her posture.

Karen.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

No. It couldn't be. Karen was... gone. She was out of prison, he knew that, but his lawyers said she had vanished into the cracks of the city. She wouldn't be sitting in a park in Manhattan sketching. She was a murderer. Murderers didn't create art.

The light turned green.

"Sir?" the driver asked.

"Drive," Isaiah said, his voice rough. He didn't look back. It was a ghost. Just a ghost.

Karen looked up as the black car sped away. She saw the exhaust fumes swirl in the cold air. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

She packed her things. She couldn't stay here.

When she got back to the basement, Hoke was on the floor with a stolen laptop. It was an ancient brick of a machine Karen had salvaged from a dumpster and fixed up.

"What are you doing?" Karen asked, hanging up her coat.

Hoke slammed the lid shut. "Nothing. Playing Minesweeper."

He was lying. Hoke was a terrible liar.

"Hoke."

"I was just... looking."

Karen walked over and opened the laptop. The screen flickered to life. A browser window was open.

The search bar read: Isaiah King.

Images of Isaiah filled the screen. Isaiah at galas. Isaiah at groundbreakings. Isaiah at the funeral.

"Why?" Karen whispered.

Hoke looked up at her. His dark eyes were defiant. "I saw him on the news. The man you got scared of."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small mirror. He held it up next to the screen, comparing his own reflection to the man in the pixels.

"It's him, isn't it?" Hoke said. "He's my father."

Karen snatched the laptop away. "No! You don't have a father. Your father is dead."

"He looks like me," Hoke insisted. "Or I look like him. Did he make us live here? Is he the bad man?"

"Stop it!" Karen screamed.

She terrified him. She saw it in his flinch. She immediately dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hoke. Just... please. Don't look for him. He's dangerous. If he finds us, he'll take you away from me."

Hoke stiffened in her arms. He didn't cry. He just nodded against her shoulder.

"Okay, Mommy. I won't look."

But in his mind, Hoke had already made a connection. Isaiah King. Dangerous. Enemy.

The next day, desperation drove Karen to the temp agency on 42nd Street. They didn't ask for background checks. They just needed bodies.

"Mascot duty," the clerk said, handing her a slip. "Shopping mall. Ten bucks an hour. Cash."

Karen took it.

Two hours later, she was sweating inside a giant, plush bear costume. The head was heavy, smelling of old sweat and disinfectant. She was standing in front of the King Plaza Mall-Isaiah's flagship property.

The irony was bitter. The woman who used to design the interiors of these buildings was now a dancing bear outside the doors.

She waved at children. She handed out flyers for a toy store sale. Through the mesh of the bear's mouth, she watched the wealthy women of New York walk by in their designer coats.

She saw a woman she used to know-a socialite named Serena. Serena looked right through the bear, disgusted by the "low-life" inside the suit.

Karen felt invisible. And for the first time in five years, safe.

Saturday at the King Plaza Mall was a nightmare of noise and consumption.

Karen was exhausted. The suit was a sauna. Her left hand cramped inside the paw of the costume.

She had brought Hoke with her. She had no choice; Mrs. Gorsky was drunk, and she couldn't leave him alone in the basement.

"Sit on that bench," she had told him. "Read your book. Don't move. I'll be right here."

Hoke was sitting on the bench near the fountain, engrossed in a thick hardcover: Introduction to Quantum Mechanics. He had stolen it from a university bookstore. He understood maybe half of it, which was impressive for a five-year-old.

A red Ferrari roared up to the curb, parking directly in the "No Parking" fire lane.

Jared Xie stepped out.

Jared was Isaiah's best friend. A playboy, a hedonist, and the only person Isaiah trusted. He tossed his keys to the valet who wasn't a valet but a terrified security guard.

"Keep it running," Jared winked.

He adjusted his sunglasses and turned toward the entrance. Then he stopped.

He saw the kid.

It wasn't just that a toddler was reading a physics textbook. It was the profile. The sharp nose. The brooding brow.

Jared took off his sunglasses. He walked closer.

Hoke sensed the shadow. He looked up, his eyes narrowing.

"You're blocking my light," Hoke said.

Jared's jaw dropped. The voice. The attitude. It was like looking at a miniature Isaiah King.

"Kid," Jared said, crouching down. "Where's your mom?"

Hoke pointed at the giant bear handing out flyers.

Jared looked at the bear. The bear was taking a break, lifting the heavy head off to take a sip of water.

Karen's back was to Jared. Her chestnut hair spilled out, matted with sweat. She wiped her neck with a towel.

Jared knew that hair. He had seen it at a thousand dinners, a thousand parties.

Karen?

Karen sensed eyes on her. It was the prey instinct she had developed in prison. She slammed the bear head back on, spinning around.

But Jared had seen enough.

He pulled out his phone. He snapped a photo of Hoke. Zoomed in on the face.

Click.

Hoke heard the shutter sound. He glared at Jared. "That's rude."

Jared ignored him. He was typing furiously. He sent the photo to Isaiah.

Message: [Image Attachment] Dude. Are you sitting down? I think I found a mini-you. And you won't believe who the mother bear is.

KING TOWER - BOARDROOM

Isaiah's phone buzzed against the mahogany table.

He ignored it. He was in the middle of firing a VP of Marketing.

It buzzed again. And again.

Annoyed, Isaiah flipped it over.

The screen lit up with the photo.

The world stopped. The sound of the VP begging for his job faded into static.

Isaiah stared at the boy. It was like looking into a mirror from thirty years ago. The eyes. His eyes.

He stood up. The chair crashed backward.

"Meeting adjourned," he said. His voice was ice.

He walked out, dialing Jared.

"Where?" Isaiah demanded.

"Main entrance. King Plaza. They're leaving, Isaiah. She saw me."

"Don't let them leave!" Isaiah roared, sprinting toward the elevator. "Stall them!"

"She's fast for a bear," Jared said.

Back at the mall, Karen grabbed Hoke's hand. She didn't wait to change. She didn't wait for her pay. She ran.

She dragged Hoke through the subway turnstiles, her bear suit bulky and awkward. People stared. Kids laughed.

"Mommy, why are we running?" Hoke panted, clutching his book.

"Bad man," Karen gasped. "The bad man found us."

They squeezed onto a train just as the doors closed.

Jared reached the platform a second too late. He watched the train pull away, the bear staring back at him through the dirty glass.

Isaiah's car screeched to a halt at the curb outside the subway station five minutes later. He jumped out, looking wild.

"Where?"

"Gone," Jared said, out of breath. "Subway. Heading towards Queens."

Isaiah looked at the photo on his phone again. His thumb traced the boy's face.

"Find them," Isaiah whispered. "Hack the city cameras. Hire every PI in the state. If that boy is mine... she stole him. She stole my son."