“You were right about one thing,” I corrected her, my eyes narrowing. “I do understand trade. I understand transactions. And right now, Beatrice, you have absolutely nothing of value to trade me for your freedom. Call your genius son. Tell him to sell a sculpture to bail you out.”
“He can’t! You know he can’t!”
“Then I suggest you learn how to make yourself useful to the Maldivian penal system,” I said. “I hear the laundry duty is grueling.”
“Mrs. Sterling,” the manager’s voice barked, stepping into the frame behind her, accompanied by a burly security guard in a crisp white uniform. “The five minutes are up. You will need to pack your belongings and accompany security to the holding office to await the police transport boat.”
“No! Elena, please—”
I reached out and tapped the red button.
The screen went black. The beautiful, chaotic noise of her ruin was instantly severed, replaced by the hushed, engineered silence of my drafting room. The quarantine was complete.
The fallout over the next two months was a spectacular, self-inflicted masterpiece of ruin.