the doorknob to her room, a

va

picture of preppy perfection in her Sterling Prep uniform. He

Blair said, moving closer, reaching out to take

nd to miss its target. She looked at her stepsister,

yes before being expertly masked again. "I know you're upset," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratoria

mbarrassing, unstable screw-up, the perfect foil to Blair's golden-girl p

his. She turned, opened her door, and sh

posters of vapid-looking male celebrities. The air was thick with the cloying scent o

space. On the cluttered vanity, a small, antique silver locket caught her eye. She picked it up. Empty. A fragment of memory supplied the context: the betrothal gift from t

ctronics the other one might have stashed. Finally, in the back of the cavernous walk-i

he desktop wallpaper-with contemptuous ease. Notifications from a dozen social media apps began pin

ed into an encrypted email account on a dark web forum, a secure channel

new message, sent a week ago. Th

ad on the Ghost Orchid.

hical epiphyte known for its unique alkaloids, which had neuro-regenerativ

ivals, occasionally allies, trading information in a world of shadows and code

y was th

n. Deta

appeared. It contained a single, heavily encrypted f

re not the on

nates. Not in Nevada. Here. On the outskirts o

h her, momentarily eclipsing the pain

had to get out

rim reminder that her time was running out