The Calloways Threw Me Out at Dawn

The day the Calloways got their real daughter back, they put me out on the curb.

Marisol said it the way she said everything — chin up, voice low enough that the housekeeper could pretend not to hear. *We took you in. We gave you a name. That was generous of us. We owe you nothing further.* My brother August dropped a black Amex on the marble at my feet, a Post-it stuck to it in his neat law-firm handwriting: **PIN 0000. Don't come back.**

By the next morning, half the gala circuit was already trading the story over coffee. The charity-case girl, finally put back where she belonged.

At dawn, three black Suburbans pulled up to the row-house in Anacostia where I'd spent the night. The man in the lead car stepped out in a Brioni suit and held the rear door open with a small, practiced bow. *Ms. Marlow. The Director's been expecting you.*