Eighteen months ago, she had walked through these same glass doors as Carl. The security badge had a deadname and a photo with a too-wide jaw and hollow eyes. Tonight, her badge read C. Emberlyn . The photo showed a woman with sharp cheekbones, calm lips, and hair the color of bourbon.
Carrie leaned against the rail overlooking the empty blackjack tables. Downstairs, a janitor mopped the same stretch of floor he'd mopped for twenty years. Upstairs, in the employees' locker room, her old self hung like a discarded uniform—Carl's work boots still in the bottom of her locker, a reminder of where she'd walked from. ts carrie emberlyn
A slot machine on the floor below flickered to life—a glitch, probably. The reels spun on their own, then stopped on three cherries. No one was there to collect. Carrie smiled. Eighteen months ago, she had walked through these
Carrie Emberlyn liked the quiet of the 3 a.m. security check. The casino floor below her was a graveyard of blinking lights and silenced slot machines. This was her third shift of the week—not a job, but a ritual. Emberlyn