Ella shook her head. “I didn’t get any names.”

  “Apparently, you gave him your card.” Gretchen squinted at her suspiciously.

  “I gave everyone my card. You told me to.”

  “Oh, right. So this Raymond person, he wants to speak to you about the house. Just you. He was very specific.” Gretchen frowned at her. “Do you know what this is about?”

  Ella shrugged. “I don’t even know which man it was.”

  The pit of her stomach dropped. It couldn’t be Grant. Was his last name Raymond? She winced. No no no.

  “You do know him, don’t you?” Gretchen squinted, crossing her arms. “I see it on your face. You’re trying to steal the sale from me.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Gretchen. Honestly, I don’t know him.” Ella felt the blood drain from her face. “Can I—” She tipped into a chair and put her head between her knees. A few seconds later, she returned to upright and pulled herself together. “Sorry. I skipped lunch.”

  “So why does he want to speak to you alone?” Gretchen shook her head. “I don’t like this. He could be a rapist, Ella.”

  “Then come with me. Or send Bobby with me.” Bobby was the son of the owner of the agency, a totally safe option with a wife and six kids and the kind of dull but pleasant affability built for sales. Ella peered at Gretchen, who sat at her desk, twiddling pencils. “Where does he want to meet?”

  “At the house, of course,” Gretchen said sharply. “He wants to see it again. Bobby won’t do it. I can drive you there, but Mister Raymond was adamant that you alone show him the house.”

  “Oh, for fu—” Ella blurted. “I mean, why?”

  “It’s tomorrow at ten. I have to call the owners.” Gretchen still glared. “I don’t like it, Ella.”

  At nine-forty-five the next morning, Ella sat in the front in Gretchen’s fancy red Range Rover. Ella’s hand trembled as she lowered the visor to check herself in the mirror. Did she look bland enough? Ugly enough? She fluffed her bangs and smacked her lips together. She’d decided against lipstick and Gretchen noticed, telling her to at least put on some lip balm. Ella didn’t have any, so she licked her lips and tried to quiet her nerves.

  Please let it be that nice single guy, the skinny one with the pointy shoes. What did he do? She had no idea what types of jobs men had beyond bouncers, bartenders, truck drivers, and janitors. And dentists, of course. But Skinny didn’t look like any of those.

  Gretchen checked her watch against the clock on the dashboard. “Ten minutes. You ready?”

  “Got the mace.” Ella patted her purse. “Should I unlock now or wait?”

  “I’ll unlock.” Gretchen jumped out and returned in a flash, skipping back down the walk and behind the wheel. A car drove by slowly in the opposite direction but didn’t stop.

  “What did he say—exactly?” Ella asked. “About himself.”

  “Not much. Just his name and that you showed him the house.”

  Ella began to protest that she hadn’t really shown anyone around the house when a large foreign car pulled to the curb in front of the Range Rover. “Is that him?” Gretchen whispered.

  They watched as his legs appeared in the open door, then the rest of him. Short, not skinny. He paused, eyeing their vehicle, as he smoothed his jacket and tie. Ella had never seen him in a suit. But it was Grant. She closed her eyes, picturing him in his usual Hawaiian shirt and roll of bills. Gretchen elbowed her. “He looks okay. Get out.” She turned to Ella, who was frozen, fingers on the door handle. “What are you waiting for? Go. Now.”

  Maybe he really was a house buyer, Ella told herself as she approached Mr. Raymond. He stood idly, swinging his keys, eyes flicking to Gretchen in the car. Ella made herself smile. “Good morning, Mister Raymond. I’m Ella Brown, we—”

  He stuck out his hand. “Call me Steve.” Ella stared at his hand, so recently stuffing bills into women’s lingerie. He squeezed her hand hard. “Let’s go in.”

  The house smelled like bacon. The kitchen was dirty, pans sat in the sink. Ella paused in the dining room and turned to Mr. Raymond—Steve.

  “What did you want to look at again?” She said, trying for a professional air. “Feel free to walk around.”

  Steve ran a hand over his hair and cocked his head with a lecherous grin. “So, this is where you’ve run off to.”

  Ella stopped breathing. Then made herself calm. “I beg your pardon?”

  He laughed, a sad sound. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know it’s you, Princess.” He stepped closer. “We’re old friends.”

  She moved away. “Please, keep away from me.” She pulled out her phone and clicked it open. She scrolled to Gretchen’s number and poised her thumb over the call button. “I have help, right outside, mister.”

  Steve raised both hands, palms toward her in surrender. “I want no trouble. You must miss the tips though, huh?” He pulled a roll of bills from a pocket and peeled off a fifty. “Private dance? What do you say? No splitting it with Commander Norma.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She clicked the call button but didn’t say anything when she heard Gretchen speak. “Please, sir, do you want to see the house or not?”

  “Oh, I get it,” Steve said. “Keep it on the down-low for the office. They don’t know, do they?”

  “You can go look at the upstairs by yourself. I’ll wait outside.” She walked toward the door, but he caught her by the arm.

  He leaned in, his grip tight on her biceps. “Princess Hot Pants tries to go straight. Let’s just see how that works out,” he hissed in her ear.

  She broke away and ran out onto the porch. Gretchen was out of the car, standing by her open door, concern etched on her face. Ella swung open the passenger door and jumped inside. Gretchen leaned down. “What happened?”

  Ella shook her head, unable to speak. She was angry now, the rage at the man rushing into her hands, her face. She locked the car door and put on her seat belt.

  “Okay, I got this,” Gretchen said gently. Steve arrived on the porch and walked toward Gretchen, who stood on the front walk, arms crossed. “What was all that about, Mister Raymond? You’ve upset my colleague.”

  Steve chuckled. “Your colleague, is she?” He paused, looking for Ella. “I don’t think she’s ready for prime time, miss.” He brushed past Gretchen, climbed into his car, and squealed the tires as he drove away.

  Back at the office parking lot, Gretchen sat in the car with the engine off, waiting for Ella to explain. “What happened in there, Ella? You have to tell me. Did he touch you or something?”

  Ella glanced at her. “No. Not in that way.”

  “So why are you upset? Did he say something?”

  “He expected things, I guess you could say.”

  “Bastard.” Gretchen slapped the steering wheel. “Come on. We have to tell Bobby.”

  “No!” Ella gasped. “Please. Just drop it.” She gave Gretchen her pleading look. “Please?”

  Gretchen frowned at her. “Hmm. Okay. But honestly, that’s not the way to handle it, girlfriend.”

  The email didn’t take long to arrive. It was late, around ten o’clock that evening, when she checked her schedule for the next day. There it was. An email from Steve Raymond on her work account. She wanted to delete it, send it into the ether, but she had to know what she was dealing with.

  Hey Princess, it’s your lover boy. It was special seeing you today. You still look hot you know, like you could really change that rockin’ bod with a business suit. Forget that, sexy. I miss your hot pants. So do the other guys I’m sure but I’m the one, right? Your man. I have some tips for you, some serious dinero. I know you need it. Call me:

  He listed a number and signed the message “Stevo.” She sent it to ‘trash.’ What a scumbag. Did he have her phone number too? She checked her phone. No calls from him. But how long would that last?

  She found out at three a.m. when her phone chirped. ‘Unknown number.’ She pulled the pillow over her head and tried to sleep. Unsuccessfully.

  She was late the next day, and ragged. She gulped coffee and sat behind her desk, waiting for the next call or email from the scumbag. Gretchen arrived, standing over her.

  “Ready to talk? You look like shit,” Gretchen whispered.

  Ella glanced up at her fierce face. “I wish I—” She shook her head. Gretchen retreated unhappily. Ella groaned silently. She couldn’t face it if the office knew who she was all those years. She would get fired and everyone would know. It would be this juicy secret everyone would pass along. She could hear them whispering and laughing. The humiliation of it hit her hard.

  A half hour later, she screwed up her courage and talked to Bobby. “Can you take my picture and phone number off the website? I’ve been getting, you know, unwanted attention.”

  Bobby frowned, a bit stunned. “Really? From who?”

  “Men, Bobby. Random guys.”

  “Oh. Right. I’ll get on it, Ella. We can’t have that.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “The website guy is kinda slow. A week, tops.”

  Back at her desk, Ella wanted to cry. A week? Well, Sleazo Stevo already had her number and email. He knew where she worked. He knew her name. Was it only a matter of time before he showed up at her door? She groaned. There was no way to disappear.

  That night, another email from him.

  Hey, lover. I get the feeling you don’t want your new business self mixed in with your rockin’ hot pants self. That might make life difficult, eh? Might get fired? Might have to go back to the pole? I promise to keep things quiet. You can trust me. I will need $10,000 by the end of the week though. Otherwise it’ll be all over town.

  Ella Brown=Princess Hot Pants. A lap dance on the house! I see it on bus benches now. Call me and we can work this out.

  The next morning at the office she got another email, similar terms. Ten-thousand dollars to keep quiet. She didn’t have the money. She’d never had more than a thousand dollars in the bank in her life. She started smoking again, a habit she hated. She was so shaky though; she needed to calm down and think. She was hardly sleeping. At ten o’clock that morning, she went out the back door and lit up on the steps, holding her skirt tight against her legs as she sat. She glanced around the parking lot for Steve’s car. So far, so good.

  She ground out the cigarette on the step. As she stood up, she saw a woman crossing the parking lot, walking briskly. A prospective buyer perhaps. Ella squinted at her, smiling. No response. Ella turned to open the door.

  “Wait! Miss?” A voice called out.

  Ella paused, door wide. The woman wore black slacks, running shoes, and a puffy jacket, although the day was warm. Her hair was in a messy ponytail. She was pretty, or had been before middle age. “Can I help you?”

  The woman ran up the four steps. “Oh, god, I hope so.” She gave Ella a thin smile. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  They walked a block to the coffee shop called Grounds for Dismissal. It was near the courthouse. The woman paid for two black coffees—they had oddly similar tastes. Ella didn’t know how to play this, whatever this was. Presume the best, Bobby always said. So she asked, “Are you looking to buy or sell?”

  The woman winced and looked up from her cup. “My name is Agnes Raymond.”

  Raymond? Ella sat back in the chair, silent. The woman continued: “And you are Ella Brown, right? I saw your picture on the website.”

  That damn website. Ella nodded. “Agnes Raymond as in Missus Raymond?”

  “Correct. Married to that asshole, Steve.”

  Ella felt her eyebrows jump. She’d been digging her fingernails into her palms, but let go. “So, you’re estranged?”

  Agnes smiled. “He doesn’t know it yet.” She leaned closer. “How does he know you?”

  Ella pulled her jacket over her breasts. “I—I can’t say.”

  “Escort?”

  “No!”

  “Stripper then. He likes that place by the harbor. What’s it called?”

  No point in hiding now. Ella slumped, defeated. “The Scuttlebutt. Please, ma’am. I’m trying to change, you know? Put all that behind me. Live a straight life.”

  Agnes touched the back of Ella’s hand. “Don’t worry, honey. We’re on the same side.”

  What did that mean? Ella frowned at the woman.

  “I’ve been following him. You showed him that house over on Elm Street. With his piece.”

  Ella wasn’t sure what to do with this woman. She was so upfront about all her troubles. “Yes, um, I guess. I didn’t know who she was.”

  “He still goes to the Scuttlebutt. What is he like in there? I could never force myself to go inside.”

  “He’s a big tipper.” Agnes raised her eyebrows in question. “Fifties.”

  “Jesus.” She gripped her mug. “He has burned through so much money. He has a good job. He sells computers to big companies. But the money disappears. I thought he was going to call girls. But he has that little thing. Did he buy her that house?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’ve been siphoning off money, just in case. You know, the rainy-day fund? I have a little gift shop but it doesn’t make much money. I don’t want to tip him off, make him shut me out.” Agnes had clear blue eyes, just like Ella’s without the brown contacts, but with dark circles underneath. “Has he made contact with you? Since the showing?”

  Ella nodded. “He recognized me.”

  “And what? Is he blackmailing you? Christ-on-a-crutch, he’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?”

  Ella put her hands to her face, hiding her shame. It was amazing, really, that she could still feel shame after ten years as Princess Hot Pants. She wanted to cry, but she hadn’t cried in so long she’d forgotten how. “Please, ma’am. Don’t say that.”

  “But is he?” Agnes demanded. Ella lowered her hands and nodded. “That bastard. How much does he want?”

  “Ten thousand. I don’t have it, ma’am. I’ve never had it.”

  “Call me Agnes.” She reached out and squeezed Ella’s hand. “Don’t worry. We can figure this out for our mutual benefit.”

  Ella frowned. “Meaning what?”

  “We’ll both be rid of him, honey. Are you in?”

  Agnes arrived at Ella’s apartment that evening after Steve left for whatever Steve was up to, his piece or the Scuttlebutt or parts unknown. He always told Agnes it was a business thing, no details. Tonight she was glad. She sat on Ella’s sprung sofa that she’d bought at Goodwill and accepted a glass of white wine.

  Agnes’s plan was simple and thankfully non-lethal. Lure Steve to a place to pick up the ten thousand bucks and have the cops there to arrest him. That was the plan in total. They discussed logistics, what would actually be in the briefcase, who knew someone on the police force they could trust.

  “I know nobody,” Ella said. “I mean, cops come into the Scuttlebutt, or so I’ve heard. The boss would point them out, so we didn’t, you know, go down the wrong alley. So, I kept my distance.”

  “I don’t know any either,” Agnes said, sipping the last of her wine. “But the thing doesn’t work without an arrest, caught in the act of picking up the so-called cash.”

  “But wouldn’t I have to show them the emails?” Ella asked.

  “You don’t want to?”

  “Cops are big gossips. Like teenage girls, Norma says. All into the scuttlebutt at the Scuttlebutt, she says.”

  “What if we take pictures of him picking up the loot? And black out parts of the emails?”

  That was the only route they could agree on: giving someone at the police department the emails with sentences blacked out, along with photos of Steve retrieving the money. Then turn it all over to the cops wrapped in a big bow.

  “I hope it’s enough to put him away,” Agnes mused, unconvinced. “It’s kinda weak.”

  “Does he have a good lawyer or something?”

  “He does. His best friend.”

  “What if we put some of that powder stuff inside the briefcase? The kind that explodes all over you and doesn’t wash off? Then we get photos of him opening it in his car. The powder everywhere.”

  Agnes had a friend who was a private detective. Almost a cop, she said. And she had a camera with a telephoto lens. Agnes would ask her to help.

  Again that night, another email. The tone grew more threatening, the deadline just three days away.

  I know people, Princess. Reporters at the newspaper and TV stations. They’d love a little human interest story about a stripper, a ho who thought she could make it outside but was just too damn stupid.

  At five the next morning, Ella lay in bed, eyes wide open. Her heart raced with anxiety. She didn’t want to do this thing, but couldn’t see a way around it. Steve was going to blow her cover. He would do it out of spite. Agnes said he was vindictive and cruel. It was obvious she was afraid of him, which made Ella more nervous. Agnes was going to get a divorce when this was over, when he was behind bars and couldn’t hurt her. But for Ella—not much upside.

  Why had she thought she could make it in the straight world? Was she insane? She missed Norma, her big, motherly presence, her reassuring, practical self, never critical as long as you didn’t gain weight or forget to fork over her cut of your tips. What would Norma say about all this?

  Before she left for the office, Ella sat at her small kitchen table and picked at a muffin. She wasn’t hungry; the cigarettes had cured that. She lit one and put her forehead in her hand. What a mess. Her stomach roiled. Before she could stop herself, she picked up her phone and called Norma.

  “Hey, girl. You’re up early,” Norma said sleepily.

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll call back.”

  “Don’t be silly. What’s on your mind? How you doing out there?”

  “Oh, you know. Ups and downs.”

  “I hear ya. Down day?”

  Ella hesitated. She wanted to tell Norma about Steve, but—did she?