One Door From Heaven

all say the economy's sliding."
        "People suck in the best of times," said K
        Micky had no idea how she ought to respond to that.
        "In this market," F said with something that sounded vaguely like sisterly concern, "you have to go into a job interview perfect-all pluses, no minuses. If I were you, I'd take another look at the way you're dressing for it. The clothes don't do what you want."
        This coral-pink suit with the pleated white shell was the nicest outfit in Micky's closet.
        As though she'd read that thought, F said, "It's not because the suit's from Kmart, or wherever it's from. That doesn't matter. But the skirt's too short, too tight, and with all the cleavage you've got, don't wear a scoop-necked blouse. Honey, this country's full of greedy trial lawyers, which makes you look like you're trying to sucker some executive into making a pass so you can slam his company with a sexual-harassment suit. When personnel directors see you, it doesn't matter if they're men or women, what they see is trouble, and they're full up on trouble these days. If you have time to change before that interview, I'd recommend it. Don't look so… obvious."
        F's black-hole gravity drew Micky toward oblivion.
        Maybe the advice about clothes was well meant. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe she thanked F for her counsel. Maybe she didn't. One moment she was in the office, and an instant later she stood outside; the door was closed, yet she had no memory of having crossed the threshold.
        Whatever she'd said or not said as she'd left the room, she was sure she'd done nothing to alienate F further or to harm Leilani's chances of getting help. Nothing else mattered. Not her own dreams, not her pride, at least not here, not now.
        As before, just four chairs in the reception lounge. Seven people waiting instead of the previous five.
        The corridor seemed hotter than the office.
        Hotter than hot, the elevator broiled. Pressure built during the descent, as though Micky were aboard a bathysphere, dropping into an oceanic trench. She placed one hand against the wall, half expecting to feel the metal panel buckling beneath her palm.
        She almost wished that her quenched anger would flare up again, raw and hot, balancing the summer heat with that inner fire, because what took its place was a quiet desperation too much like despair.
        On the ground floor, she located the public restrooms. Warm, oily nausea crawled the walls of her stomach, and she feared that she might throw up.
        The stall doors stood open. The room was deserted. Privacy.
        Harsh fluorescent light bounced off white surfaces, ricocheted from the mirrors. The icy impression couldn't chill the hot reality.
        She turned on the cold water at one of the sinks and held her upturned wrists under the flow. Closed her eyes. Took slow, deep breath. The water wasn't cold enough, but it helped.
        When at last she'd dried her hands, she turned to a full-length mirror on the wall next to the paper-towel dispenser. Leaving home, she'd thought that she was dressed to make the right impression, that she appeared businesslike, efficient. She'd thought she looked nice.
        Now her reflection mocked her. The skirt was too short. And too tight. Though not shockingly low-cut, the blouse nevertheless looked inappropriate for a job interview. Maybe the heels on her white shoes were too high, as well.
        She did look obvious. Cheap. She looked like the woman she had been, not like the woman she wanted to be. She wasn't dressing for herself or for work, but for men, and for the type of men who never treated her with respect, for the type of men who ruined her life. Somehow the mirror at home hadn't shown her what she needed to see.
        This pill was bitter, but more bitter still was the way that it had been administered. By F. Bronson.
        Though difficult, taking such advice from someone who respected you and cared for you would be like swallowing medicine with honey. This dosage came with vinegar. And if F. Bronson had thought of it as medicine, instead of poison, she might not have given it.
        For years, in mirrors Micky had seen the good looks and the sexual magnetism that could get anything she desired. But now that she no longer wanted those things, now that parties and thrills and the attention of bad men held no appeal, now that she harbored higher