Chapter 3 - The Ghost’s Wardrobe
By 4:00 PM the following afternoon, the IV drip had restored a fraction of the color to my skin, though the hollows beneath my cheekbones remained pronounced.
Dr. Reed returned promptly at five, accompanied by a woman wearing dark clothing who introduced herself as Helena, a high-end theatrical and personal stylist Arthur had employed for decade-long corporate events.
Helena set down two large garment bags and a metallic makeup case on the bed. She didn't offer pity; she approached me like a sculptor approaching a block of rough marble.
"Mr. Bennett gave me very specific instructions," Helena said, unzipping the first garment bag. "He doesn't want you to look like a victim who survived. He wants you to look like an executioner who arrived."
She pulled out a tailored, double-breasted suit in deep midnight blue, crafted from heavy Italian wool with sharp, structured shoulders and gold hardware. Beside it was a silk blouse in ivory, a pair of black leather pumps with a four-inch heel, and a pair of dark, framed glasses that partially obscured the faint bruising around my eyes.
For two hours, Helena worked with disciplined precision. She cut away my ruined, split ends, styling my mahogany hair into a razor-sharp, shoulder-length bob that accentuated my high, angular bone structure. She applied long-wear foundation to mask the discoloration of my skin, defined my eyebrows, and painted my lips in a deep, matte crimson.
When I stood up and looked into the mirror at 7:00 PM, the homeless woman from the overpass was gone.
In her place stood a stranger—a woman who looked dangerous, elegant, and utterly terrifying.
"My God," Helena whispered, stepping back with a look of genuine awe. "You look like a storm."
"I feel like one," I said.
My phone chimed. A message from Marcus: The vehicle is waiting in the driveway. We leave in five minutes.
I picked up the small leather clutch Helena had prepared. Inside was the silver keycard Arthur had given me, a high-speed encrypted flash drive, and a small, gold-plated pen with a hidden voice recorder built into the clip.
I walked out of the house and stepped into the back seat of the black SUV. The air inside smelled of fresh leather and rain. Marcus glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his stoic face betraying a subtle nod of approval before he shifted the vehicle into drive.
As we drove toward downtown Houston, the city lights flickered through the rain-streaked windows. We passed the exit for Interstate 45—the very road beneath which I had slept twenty-four hours ago, shivering on wet cardboard, eating leftover crackers from a gas station trash bin.
May you like
I pressed my manicured fingers against the glass.
Ethan, I thought, watching the glittering glass needle of Bennett Tower rise fifty stories into the black Texas sky. You built a fortune on my grave. Tonight, I'm digging it up.
