A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗
- Author: Laura Hankin
Book online «A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗». Author Laura Hankin
OTHER TITLES BY LAURA HANKIN
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Copyright © 2021 by Laura Hankin
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hankin, Laura, author.
Title: A special place for women / Laura Hankin.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020035470 (print) | LCCN 2020035471 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984806260 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984806284 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction. | Occult fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A71483 S68 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A71483 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020035470
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020035471
Cover design and illustrations by Emily Osborne
Cover images: doorways © RCW.studio/ Shutterstock; neon © wacomka/Shutterstock
Book design by Tiffany Estreicher, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my mother, whom I see in all sorts of places.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Titles by Laura Hankin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
There is a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women.
—Madeleine Albright
PROLOGUE
Over the past few years, rumors had started swirling about a secret, women-only social club called Nevertheless, where the elite tastemakers of NYC met to scratch one another’s backs. People in the know whispered all sorts of claims: Membership dues cost $1,000 a month. Last time Rihanna had been in town, she’d stopped by and gotten her aura read. Nevertheless took its no-men-allowed policy so seriously that when some belligerent guy tried to follow his girlfriend inside one night, a (female) security guard swiftly broke his collarbone.
Then, there were the more serious rumors: that the women of Nevertheless had been responsible for electing New York City’s first female mayor. And the conspiracy theories: that when she’d come for their fortunes, they’d taken her down.
If you had, say, founded a judgment-free exercise studio that donated half its profits to schoolgirls in Haiti, you’d probably done it to help the world. But you also hoped that now they would notice you. Now you’d get an invitation.
Once, a reporter had been interviewing Margot Wilding, a former socialite who’d invented a popular astrology app, and whose presence at your gallery opening or fund-raiser immediately boosted its chances of being covered by Page Six. “I’ve heard rumors that you’re a member of Nevertheless,” the reporter had said, leaning in, sycophantic. “What do I have to do to get you to dish?”
For just a moment, Margot stiffened. Then she switched on a languid smile. “Oh,” she said. “We’re just a coven of all-powerful witches, of course.”
“Of course,” the reporter said, laughing politely. “Really, though—”
“Next question,” Margot said.
That was the closest anyone got to publicly confirming Nevertheless’s existence until the night I burned its clubhouse to the ground.
ONE
Sometimes when you’re having the shittiest of days, you need to take one more tequila shot and splash some water on your face. Then, as absurd as it seems, you’ve got to go to a restaurant opening.
On one such shit day—the day that would end up setting everything in motion—I stood in front of a storefront lit with lanterns. In the window, my reflection wobbled, a disheveled figure in a corduroy miniskirt, dark curly hair all mussed from the windy September evening. That afternoon, I’d lost my job. The idea of hobnobbing in a crowd of loud, sparkling people made my stomach turn.
But I had to go inside. This was Raf’s opening. He was fancy now, profiled in Vanity Fair as the hot new celebrity chef on the scene, but he was also still the stringy boy down the block. After my parents divorced, when my mom needed a place for me to stay with free supervision until she got home from work, I’d spent multiple afternoons a week in Raf’s living room. Raf had always shared his Doritos and listened to me declaim the terrible poetry I’d written when I should’ve been paying attention in math class.
In and out, that was the plan. I threw my shoulders back and walked into the chatter, the sweet garlicky smells. Raf’s parents had grown up in Cuba before immigrating to the States together, and the press loved talking about how this fast-rising chef was reinventing the food of his roots with distinctly American twists. The breads were baked in-house. The meat came from a farm upstate where the animals were treated like family, until they were slaughtered.
I gave my name to a young woman at the door, and she scanned the clipboard in her hand, then waved me into the throng. There were two contingents in attendance—the older investor types, and then a smattering of New York’s privileged millennial crowd, who dropped by restaurant openings as casually as I dropped by my neighborhood bodega. Waiters
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