The Killer Pickpocket

Rich Girl(s)

"...reported to have died by suicide. His family has expressed that this was an unexpected death in spite of his mental health struggles, as he had always faithfully gone for his regular therapy sessions and stayed on top of his medications."

I grabbed a handful of chips from the sharing bowl as news of CEO Preston Hastings' death was announced.

"What is this?" I croaked weakly as the salty grains flooded my taste buds and hit the back of my throat.

"Don't expect anything from the on-sale rack." Paige barely looked guilty as she downed her now-fizzle less strawberry flavored La Croix. For someone who hasn't showered in five days, Paige still looked like she belonged on the cover of Glamour Mag, or one of those obnoxiously huge billboards on Broadway. Her dyed platinum curls fell effortlessly onto her slender shoulders, and even with her dark roots starting to show, she looked like a model who had just temporarily fallen off her peak, and just needed to slap on a bit of concealer and don a new dress to make her look work again.

I did a quick mental calculation of our savings. We would have just enough to tide us through the next month—barely if I still wanted to commit to using my Chanel No. 5 perfume. My irreplaceable signature scent.

"When are you picking up a shift?"

"You know it's not up to me."

I rolled my eyes. "If you don't enjoy your job, actually consider your dad's offer to sponsor your education."

Ok, I sounded a little bitter when I said that. But if there's one thing I haven't forgiven Paige for, it's her turning down a fully-sponsored education to Tisch. Tisch! I would sell anything to get in—if there was anything valuable to my name. If not for the fact that I've seen her designs of haute couture, I would've thought she was an air-headed wannabe. This girl was just way too stubborn, striving to make it on her own terms even when reality dictated otherwise. 

But that's what I like about her. You can count on Paige to be nothing but authentically herself, and that's something sorely missing in New York, well-the world-nowadays. 

"You know the trust fund girl narrative won't sound as appealing when I make it big." Paige fired back smoothly. "Anyway, Serene D'Alene's PA did get back to me, and I'm meeting her next week. Sooo..." her voice trails off expectantly. 

"Fine. You do still have $150 this month."

Paige blows me a half-hearted kiss as she changes the news channel to a trashy reality show.

I slid off the couch and put on my Ray-Bans and Converses. "Alright, momma's gotta work. See you for dinner. Don't forget the soy sauce for takeout this time."

Time for work, alright.

The kind that kills.