An entire wall of display cases gleamed under recessed lighting, packed with luxury handbags.
I opened my professional organizing kit and began logging each item's details while performing dust removal and conditioning. Standard procedure for high-end work.
When I reached a Birkin, my gloved fingers brushed a slip of paper tucked inside the inner pocket.
A receipt.
The purchase date was three months ago.
The total: thirty-five thousand dollars.
Payment method: a supplementary bank card ending in 4721.
I stared at those four digits. The air locked in my lungs.
4721. That was my bank card.
Three months ago, Otto had called me in tears. He said his company's servers were about to be shut down for nonpayment. If he couldn't come up with the money, six months of work would be wiped out overnight.
That night, I ran through a downpour to three different pawnshops until one of them would take my grandmother's gold bracelet, the only thing she ever left me, and give me enough to scrape together the last fifty thousand dollars. I wired every cent to that card.
I ate nothing but plain noodles and tap water for three straight months.