Page 9 of He Knows When You're Awake

Dear Ms. Whitmore,

Our firm specializes in identifying and nurturing unique talent in the luxury goods sector. Your vision for the Midnight Frost collection, particularly the translucent collar piece with its innovative use of negative space and asymmetric gemstone placement, has captured our attention.

I go still. The collar piece. I’ve never shown that design to anyone except Chloe. It’s not even on my private Instagram. How could they possibly know about it?

We believe your interpretation of beauty’s duality—the interplay of submission and dominance, frost and fire—deserves proper backing. We would like to invite you to present your ideas for your line to our CEO in Gstaad, Switzerland.

Plane tickets and accommodation arrangements are attached. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow night at the Alpina Gstaad.

We look forward to discussing how we can help bring your vision to life.

Regards,

Lawrence Blakely,

Senior Investment Manager, Asher Industries

My hands shake as I open the attachments. Sure enough, there’s a ticket to Switzerland, hotel reservations at what looks like an absurdly luxurious resort, and a detailed itinerary.

“This has to be spam,” I mutter, but something makes me hesitate before deleting it. The language is too specific, the details about my work too accurate.

I spend the next hour verifying everything I can. The email domain checks out. It’s definitely from Asher Industries. The flight and hotel reservations are real.

My fingers hover over my phone. I need a reality check.

“I think I’m being courted by a potential serial killer,” I say when Chloe answers.

“Ooh, fun! Wait, what?”

I explain about my final day at my job, the email, the tickets, and the mysteriously detailed knowledge of my designs. “It’s too perfect,” I finish. “And too creepy. How do they know about designs I’ve never shown anyone?”

“Maybe they have really good research teams?” Chloe suggests. “Look, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, murder? Organ trafficking? Ending up in some billionaire’s underground dungeon?”

“Okay, yes, but also—what if it’s legitimate? This could be your chance, Sloane. The universe literally just dropped a ticket to Switzerland in your lap right when you need it most.”

I glance at my portfolio, then at my sad box of office supplies. “It does seem like extremely convenient timing.”

“So go! What do you have to lose?” There’s a pause. “Oh yeah... potential body parts.”

“Not helping, Chlo.”

“Sorry. But seriously, this is a legitimate company. You need this. Like, really need this.”

After hanging up, I do what any rational person would do—Igoogle “Asher Industries.” The results lead me to their CEO, Colsen Asher. Articles paint him as a brilliant but ruthless businessman who specializes in finding undervalued assets and turning them into gold. There aren’t any pictures of him online, but I suppose old dudes who rule empires aren’t worried about their social media presence.

Before I can stop myself, I type: “How to tell if a billionaire is a serial killer?”

The search results are not reassuring.

An hour later, my suitcase is open on my bed, winter clothes piled around it. My portfolio sits ready on my desk, containing every sketch, every design that’s ever mattered to me. I still can’t quite believe I’m doing this.

I check my phone one more time. The email is still there, still real. The plane ticket is still valid. And my Google search history still asks the question I can’t quite answer: Is this a Christmas miracle or a very elaborate trap?

But as I pack my warmest sweaters (none with working lights, thankfully), I realize Chloe’s right. In this economy, with my dreams on the line and my savings dwindling, I’ll have to take my chances.

Besides, I reason as I zip up my suitcase, if he really is a serial killer, at least I’ll go out in style.