As fate would have it, on the same day her application to Juilliard was rejected, she was tapped by a more exclusive and even older New York institution. Now she does work – contract work – for powerful people she has never seen, and who, she suspects, quite correctly, are terrified of her. She quietly enjoys the last thought.
Washington’s family ties with the Illuminati go back some two hundred years on her grandfather's side. They started out as little more than patsies and cleaners in a growing city prone to nasty accidents. Accidents in which certain people could not possibly be involved, or implicated. After generations of discretion and efficiency, they have become part of a go-to group for their shadow taskmasters.
Lately, Ronelle's phone has been running hot. She knows the routine by heart: a morning jog, a dead drop, an anonymous hotel room. Inside there's a blue gym bag waiting for her, or sometimes a black metal briefcase. She carries a fistful of keys to the city, keys to doors that no-one else opens. There are a lot of dirty secrets out there, little and big, but she's professional.
It is just another kind of performance, she thinks. A big disappearing act. When a problem needs to vanish, they call on people like her. And she answers, willingly.