S AM'S PHONE BUZZED beside her on the kitchen counter.
MILO IS APPROACHING WITH YOUR ORDER , the Door-Dash notification read. Less than a minute later, a knock sounded at the front door. Sam answered it and waited patiently while the Dasher dug through his insulated tote.
"Have a good one," he said, passing her the small bag containing her breakfast burrito.
"Thanks." Her eyes snagged on the crumpled-up grease-stained paper bag resting at his feet. Sam squinted at the script stamped on the kraft paper. "Hold on, sorry, does that bag say Antoine's on it?"
The Dasher zipped his bag shut and shrugged. "Dunno. Found it in the elevator. You got trash on this floor?"
"Uh, yeah," she said, oddly unnerved. "There's a chute at the end of the hall."
It was strange, this sense of almost déjà vu that kept sneaking up on her.
First with Hannah and Coco and then later last night, when she had been flipping channels.
She'd stumbled across an old episode of Hell's Kitchen and gotten the eeriest feeling that she was forgetting something.
Something big. Something important. Something she was supposed to remember.
If she could just put her finger on it …
It was stress. That had to be it. She could google it, but then WebMD would probably convince her she had a brain tumor, and she didn't need to heap any medical anxiety onto her already full plate. No, it was definitely stress.
She wished the Dasher a good day and shut the door, locking it behind her.
Sam had just taken her first bite of her spicy chorizo breakfast burrito when her phone buzzed for the second time this morning, this time with a text.
Melissa (9:12 a.m.):
Jimmy said he's free tomorrow at two. Does that work for you?
Melissa's nephew, Jimmy, worked for a moving company in Queens.
Sam (9:13 a.m.):
Two sounds perfect! You're a godsend, Mel! You and Jimmy! I have no idea what I'd do without you.
Sam (9:14 a.m.):
Nacho and Pumpkin say thank you, too.
Melissa (9:15 a.m.):
Pet tax!
Melissa (9:15 a.m.): And you're welcome
Nacho and Pumpkin were notoriously camera shy, but she was pretty sure Mel wouldn't mind a blurry picture.
She swiped open her gallery and frowned, squinting at the tiny, unfamiliar picture filling the thumbnail of her recent photos album.
She tapped on it and the album opened to no fewer than a dozen smiling selfies of Sam and—
Her phone hit the floor with a clatter as the memories came at her like a freight train.
Daphne. Their deal. Her wishes. Clinging to hope and letting go.
Trusting Daphne to catch her. Their stolen moments.
Louisiana. Arguing with Daphne and being suddenly so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open, feeling like she was sinking into a pool of warm Jell-O.
Sam had fallen asleep in her childhood bedroom, and she'd woken up here and—
No, no, no. The elevator.
Knees weak, Sam staggered across the apartment and shoved her feet into a pair of boots sans socks. She grabbed her coat off the hook and snatched her keys off the table and booked it out of the apartment and down the hall, where she jammed her finger into the down button of the elevator.
The elevator opened, doors parting soundlessly, and Sam's heart thudded painfully inside her chest.
Gone were the walls inlaid with gemstones, the plush woven rugs.
The elevator looked like an elevator once more, with its mirrored walls and control panel of buttons and glazed tile floor.
There was no bar cart or retro television, no whisky glasses.
Not even the carton of bread pudding she'd spent her first wish on remained.
It was like Daphne had never even existed.
"Daphne! I know you can hear me," Sam called out, stepping inside the elevator. "Daphne! Shenanigans!"
Sleep , Daphne had told her. We'll talk about it in the morning.
Liar. Discussing it later had never been Daphne's intention. This had.
All of this will feel like a fever dream.
Knowing Daphne, she probably thought she was doing Sam a kindness, but she couldn't have been more wrong.
Dead wrong. No. She didn't get to do this.
Flounce into Sam's life like a pink tornado and turn everything upside down.
Convince Sam that she deserved to be loved and then leave without warning, without giving Sam a say in anything.
Raising her hopes and then dashing them to pieces, ripping the rug out from under her feet.
Sam's chest burned, an angry flush working its way up her throat.
It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. Consequences be damned, Sam wasn't going to accept it. She knew exactly what she needed to do.
Daphne wouldn't talk to her?
Fine.
Sam would just have to find someone who would.
Heart in her throat, she reached out and with a trembling finger pressed the button, riding the elevator down to the first floor.
Outside on the street, the air was bitter cold and sharp, cutting through her like a knife.
She wrapped her coat a little tighter around her and stepped off the sidewalk, crossing the street, heading west in the direction of Riverside Park, where the streets were a little less crowded.
Fewer cars, fewer pedestrians, the chances of being seen or overheard slimmer than if she tried this at a crossroads on Broadway or Columbus Avenue, where, no matter what time of day it was, the streets were never dead.
At the corner of West Eighty-First Street and Riverside Drive, Sam stopped walking and looked around. There were a few joggers out, but they paid her no mind, moving past without stopping.
Sam took a deep breath and let her eyes fall shut.
Desperate. Okay. She tried to zero in on it, the ache in her breast and the too-tight feeling in her chest, heavy and hollow at once. She reached for the feeling and let it wash over her, let it sink into her bones and build and build until it hurt to breathe.
The sensation of being watched crept over her.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, the air humming like someone had plucked a taut string or struck the rim of a singing bowl.
The note, bright and clear, ran through her from the top of her head down to her toes, and a violent shiver racked her body.
Sam opened her eyes.
The street was as quiet and empty as before. Her heart withered and shrank inside her chest.
It was supposed to work. It had to. It was this or nothing. She had no other option.
A trash truck rumbled down the street, and the stench of garbage and diesel made her eyes water. The truck passed, wind whipping wisps of hair in her face, and as it did, Sam locked eyes with a tall brunette across the street.
A tall brunette who, two seconds ago, had not been standing there.
Her dark eyes, already some of the biggest Sam had ever seen, widened. "Oh, hell no."
She turned on her heel and started to walk away from Sam.
"Wait!" Sam hurried after her. "I just want to talk."
"No fucking way," she called out over her shoulder. She was tall, taller than Sam, her long legs encased in tight-fitting black leather pants, and they were eating up the sidewalk. "I like my head attached to my body, thanks ever so."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means this conversation is officially over. As far as I'm concerned, it never even happened." She made a sharp left into the park, footsteps tearing up the pavement. "Go away."
"Would you please just …" Sam skirted a pile of wet leaves, swearing under her breath when a few of them stuck to her boot. "Slow down for a second. You're the one who showed up."
The woman stopped and glared. "All I wanted was a stupid bagel. I was two blocks away, and you were practically oozing desperation. I couldn't have resisted had I tried. I'm surprised you didn't summon every demon in the tristate area with your eau de woe."
Holy shit. She had actually done it. Summoned a demon. She and her eau de woe had pulled it off. She'd figured as much with the whole sudden-appearance schtick, but hearing it confirmed was—and she couldn't believe she was thinking this—a relief. "Look—what's your name?"
"Oh, fat chance." She crossed her arms and the hem of her handkerchief-style top rose, baring a wide strip of her midriff all the way from her pierced belly button down to the jut of her hip bones. "I believe I was quite clear when I said I like my head on my shoulders."
"Demons can't die."
"So? Decapitation still hurts like a motherfucker."
Sam was afraid to ask if she was speaking from experience.
"Okay, fine, forget telling me your name. I'm Sam and I just want—"
"I know who you are, Samantha Cooper." She rolled her eyes. "I also know that you are strictly verboten."
"Oh yeah? Says who?"
"Who do you think? Demon, about yea high." She held her hand up, indicating approximately how tall Daphne was in the heels she wore. "Has a strange proclivity for the color pink? Ringing any bells?"
Sam sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. "You know Daphne?"
"Everyone knows Daphne. Everyone is terrified of Daphne. And if someone says they aren't, they're either lying or they're a fool."
"So she what? Put out some Hell-wide memo that I'm … what, off-limits? What does that even mean?"
She hadn't even known Daphne could do that. Mark humans, mark her , off-limits.
"On pain of torture, no demon shall attempt to enter into a deal with the human Samantha Marjorie Cooper. She was quite clear about what she'd do if anyone disobeyed her directive." She shivered. "Quite colorful, too."
"Well, lucky for us both, I'm not looking to make any other deals. All I want is to talk to Daphne."
"Best of luck with that." She gave Sam a two-finger salute and turned like she was about to walk off, but Sam, anticipating it this time, jumped in front of her and held out her hands, arms outstretched.
"Please. Just … can you tell me how to get in touch with her?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What's in it for me?"