BURY

They told me Maya overdosed. They told me not to open the casket. So I opened it. The funeral home smelled like cheap flowers and bleach. The air conditioning was too cold for a room full of dead people. Maya's mother was sobbing in the front row, her father was staring at the wall like he wanted to disappear into it, and the priest was reading from a book that Maya would have laughed at. Maya didn't believe in God. She believed in tequila, bad decisions, and me. And she was lying in that white box wearing a dress she hated. I stood up while the priest was still talking. My black dress stuck to my thighs. My heels clicked too loud on the tile. "Lena, sit down," her mother whispered. I didn't. I walked to the casket. "Lena!" I flipped the lid open. Silence. Maya was there. Her dark hair was perfectly curled. Her makeup was perfect. Someone had put pink lipstick on her. Maya never wore pink lipstick. She wore red, like blood, like war. And around her neck - I saw it. A faint purple bruise, poorly covered with foundation. Finger marks. My stomach dropped. This was not an overdose. Someone strangled her. A hand grabbed my wrist. Hard. "You should have listened." I knew that voice even before I turned. Low, calm, American accent with a little Italian underneath. Like expensive whiskey that burns on the way down. Damon Valentino. The man Maya texted me about ten minutes before she died. _If anything happens to me, don't let them bury me. It's Damon._ He was taller in real life than in the photos Maya secretly showed me. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. His hair was slicked back. His eyes were the color of a storm at midnight. And he was looking at me like I was a problem he needed to erase. "Let go of me," I said. He didn't. His fingers tightened around my wrist. I could feel his ring - cold metal, a family crest. "You are making a scene," he whispered, close enough that only I could hear him. "Your friend would not want a scene." "You don't get to say her name." "I get to do whatever I want, Lena Cruz. You should know that by now." My name in his mouth made my skin crawl. How did he know my name? Maya's mother was staring. Everyone was staring. Damon smoothly closed the casket lid with his other hand, like a gentleman. Like he hadn't just threatened me at my best friend's funeral. He leaned in, his lips almost touching my ear. "Meet me outside in five minutes. Or I will have security carry you out. And believe me, you do not want to find out what happens after that." He let go of my wrist and walked away. Every single person in that room moved out of his way. I looked down at my wrist. Red marks. Maya's bruised neck flashed in my head again. I had two choices. Run. Or find out who killed my best friend. I pulled my small bag tighter over my shoulder. Inside it, my dad's old pistol was heavy against my hip. I had brought it because foster-care kids learn early - never go to a funeral without protection. I followed Damon Valentino outside. The graveyard was behind the funeral home. The sky was dark, about to rain. A black Bentley was parked under a dead tree, engine running. Damon stood beside it, smoking a cigarette he didn't seem to enjoy. "You opened it," he said without turning. "She was wearing pink lipstick. She hated pink." He finally looked at me. And for the first time, I saw something flicker in his face. Not guilt. Annoyance. Like I was right and he hated that I was right. "Smart girl. Maya said you were smart." "Where were you the night she died?" He laughed once, no humor. "You think I killed her?" "I think you know who did." He threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his polished shoe. "You want the truth, Lena? The truth is expensive. You cannot afford it." "Try me." He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne - dark, smoky, dangerous. He looked down at me, at my black dress, at my shaking hands that I was trying so hard to keep steady. "You work for me," he said. "Ninety days. Personal assistant. You do what I say, when I say it. No questions." "And in return?" "In return, I give you the file. The real autopsy. The security footage from that night. The name of the man who put his hands on her neck." My heart stopped. He had it. He had everything. "Why would you give that to me?" "Because Maya was... important to me. And because you -" His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. "You intrigue me. You did not cry at her funeral. Everyone else cried. You opened the casket." "So this is a game to you?" "This is business. Ninety days. After that, you get your revenge and you disappear. If you can." If you can. It wasn't a promise. It was a threat. I should have said no. I should have walked away, gone to the police, shown them the bruise. But the police in this city belong to men like him. And Maya belonged to me. "Ninety days," I said. "And you don't touch me." A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. The kind of smile that says you just made a very bad deal. "Oh, Lena," he whispered, opening the car door for me. "I will do much more than touch you." Behind us, they were lowering the wrong body into the wrong grave. I got into the devil's car.