On his last trip to the penthouse, Bowen handed me a small leather case. “From Mr. Ralston,” he said. I unzipped the case to find another black credit card, a spare set of access cards for the building and garage, and a shiny new phone. Before I could figure out how to respond to any of this, my phone—the real one, not the platinum-dipped status symbol—flashed with my stepmother’s face.
