Page 97 of Gilt

He nods, steepling his fingers as he waits for me to spill.

“It’s about my sister,” I begin. “She’s…she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Anyway, I came across her death certificate recently and noticed that there’s no father listed on it.” I really hope his gift extends to reading between the lines, so I don’t have to spell out any more of this than I have to.

“And you want to know who her dad is? You thought you shared the same father,” he guessed.

“Yes,” I say in a quiet voice.

“I have to warn you, Emma. Paternity cases can dredge up some nasty secrets.”

I think of how much my father drinks to deal with her death. Then Hans and his unnerving relationship with Becca. “There are a lot of things I don’t know about my sister. I have to start somewhere.”

“I’ll look into it.” He picks up a card from a stack on his desk, but I shake my head.

“I already have one.”

“Then I’ll just need you to fill this out. Basic information. Your name. Her name. Everything is kept confidential.” He passes me a sheet of paper and a pen. “My standard rate is $100 an hour.”

I flinch and force a smile. “Do you take credit cards?”

“And fake baseball cards,” he says, grinning back.

I finish filling out the information form and check the time on my phone. “I have to go!”

“I look forward to working together,” he calls after me. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.”

I pause at the door and consider my next request. “There’s one more thing,” I say slowly. “My father had a grudge against Nathaniel West. I want to know how it started.”

“It might raise some eyebrows if I go digging around looking for info on Nathaniel West,” he warns me.

I think about my next appointment. “Be discreet.”

Cachè is not what I expect. The agency’s office is as minimal as its website, the only sign of personality is the black paint coating the walls. But I guess you hide things in the dark. There’s only one woman inside, and she greets me at the door. Her dress suit matches the wall, the neckline dipping to display an impressive amount of cleavage. Other than a single silver streak at each temple, her hair is fiery red.

“You must be Caroline.” She extends a hand, and I take it uncertainly. “I’m Suzanne.”

“Um, yes, I am.” I’d nearly forgotten the fake name I’d fed her when I made the appointment.

“If you don’t mind my asking…” She pauses, and I suspect whatever comes out of her mouth next is going to be a bit rude. “…how old are you?”

“I’ll be eighteen next week.” That isn’t a lie. “Is that a problem?”

It’s been a while since I brushed up on the Vegas prostitution guidelines. It’s a joke at Belle Mère Prep that they hand out a pamphlet on the subject during career day in the local public schools.

“Oh, lovely!” She claps her hands together in delight, which I suppose means I’m good to ho. “You won’t be able to start until then, of course, but we can begin all the necessary paperwork and tests.”

“Tests?” I repeat back.

“The usual. We need to check for STDs and pregnancy as well as overall health.” She gestures to the chair at her desk. I sit down and let this soak in. I don’t know how far I’ll have to go to find out why The Dealer led us here. Getting blood drawn might be my hard limit, never mind having someone poke around inside my vagina. Ironically. “Will that be a problem?”

“I guess I didn’t realize that…” My blush finishes the sentence for me.

“Sexual relations are not a requirement. This is an escort agency.” She gives me a practiced smile that feels as rehearsed as those lines. “You choose if you want to engage in sex with your clients.”

“Then why the tests?”