The boy — who turned out to be called Scud, no last name — became her constant shadow, which annoyed the shit out of her. Fine, so he had created her new persona out of whole cloth: "Lucy Diamond" had a spotless record, a 4.0 with honors in International Relations from UCLA and a 740 on the GMAT. She had a driver's license, a passport, a Social Security card and a birth certificate. There were even credit cards with realistic limits, though of course the underground cash flow was never a problem.

Lucy had to admit that she was impressed with the quality of his work. Her own efforts at computer hacking were competent but superficial. Scud, on the other hand, could make the electrons sit up and dance — Mozart to her Chopsticks.

It didn't make the constant drilling to internalize the minutiae of her new life any more bearable. Especially when it started at breakfast.

Scud's ever-present laptop, a slim, sleek machine he'd built that was faster and more powerful than any computer she'd ever seen, sat open between them on the table. Only Lucy was eating; as usual, Scud had gotten so wrapped up in going over the details that his food sat neglected.

"So I'm supposed to have singlehandedly bailed this business out of receivership while still in college? Who the hell's going to believe that?"

"If you work the system right, just about everybody, including the IRS." He tossed her a thick sheaf of papers. "Financial records going back to the company's startup, including the details of your takeover. Minutes of all meetings. Correspondence on official letterhead for Diamond Import/Export." As she might have expected, Scud had gotten her signature dead-perfect.

"Which now exists?"

"Which now exists. Here's the fleet manifest — planes, ships, trains, trucks — and current inventory of warehouses on three continents."

"What about on their end? How do the employees know they're supposed to have been working for me for the past three years?"

"Companies go bust, get bought out and change names all the time. At the worker level, all they care about is that someone signs their paychecks. At the management level, the critical positions have been taken over by our people; they've been careful to phase out anyone who's been around too long."

But then something caught her eye and she burst out laughing. "The company's original name was Vandelay Industries? Are you kidding me?"

Scud's entire body gave the impression of recoiling even though he hadn't actually moved. "I can change it if you want," he said stiffly.

But she had seen the flash of vulnerability before his expression had shuttered closed and for once regretted her impulsive outburst. He had to have hacked into at least a hundred different high-level databases; the degree of skill it took in order to set his worms to do their work without leaving tracks was almost unimaginable. "No, you've already got all the infrastructure in place, I'll deal with it. Besides," she gave him a lopsided smile, "I never knew you had a sense of humor before."

The wide blue eyes gradually thawed. "I wasn't sure you'd even get it. Didn't think you watched television."

"I don't," she chuckled. "But Gunther does. Between jobs we sometimes watch his 'Seinfeld' or 'Friends' tapes, if we're not playing Uno or gin rummy or whatever."

Scud's brows climbed toward his hairline. "Uno?"

"There's a lot of downtime when you're doing a setup. You need something that you can pick up or put down at a moment's notice. We used to play Go Fish but it got too violent."

"Um... "

"Never underestimate the competitive nature of a roomful of really big guys suffering from testosterone poisoning."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Just then her brother shambled into the dining room, for once out of bed before the middle of the afternoon. He slopped some scrambled eggs and bacon from the buffet onto his plate, then slouched into a chair across the table from them, rubbing at reddened eyes and sniffling noisily to clear his sinuses. "Yo, sis. Who's the geek?"

Lucy's nose wrinkled involuntarily at the fug of cigarette smoke, body odor and booze. Frankie looked and smelled as though he hadn't bathed or shaved in days. "New associate. Black hat."

"No shit." Frankie poked at the eggs with his fork, then pushed the plate away. Dumping sugar into his coffee — far more than could possibly dissolve — he squinted at Scud. "He any good?"

"See for yourself." From her back pocket, she pulled out the passport Scud had had made; it was starting to look authentically battered and crumpled, its appearance nearly congruous with the number of entry and exit stamps on its pages.

Frankie's lips pursed. "Not bad. Lucy Diamond, huh? That your idea or the old man's?"

"Daddy's."

"Figures he would name his little princess after his favorite song. What are you looking at, fucktard?"

Scud's face held no hint of a reaction. "Nothing," he mumbled.

"That's right," said Frankie agreeably. "Especially if you ask my dad. 'Scuse me." He stood abruptly, lurching toward the powder room down the hall, from where he could be heard loudly emptying the contents of his stomach. One of the ever-present cadre of her father's associates quickly went to his aid.

Silence loomed over the table, but after a while it became evident that Frankie wasn't likely to return any time soon. "Sorry about that," Lucy said, embarrassed. "He's not usually that bad."

"Not like you can help who you're related to," Scud shrugged. "How long has he been using?"

The mouthful of eggs lodged halfway down her throat. Eyes watering, she drank most of her glass of orange juice in a series of gulps until her coughing subsided. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and waved off Eddie, who had popped his head in through the kitchen door at the sound of her choking. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me you can't see it." At her blank look, Scud shrugged one bony shoulder. "Bloodshot eyes. Runny nose. Not eating but craving sugar. Sudden puking."

Her brows swooped together. "So he's probably hung over. Doesn't mean he's doing drugs. I mean, he smokes pot, but who doesn't?"

"Probably lost a lot of weight recently, right? Let's just say I'm familiar with the signs."

"Signs of what?" Lucy leaned closer.

Scud wasn't looking at her. "Heroin. Could be doing coke, but my guess is he's been riding the white horse."

"Shit." She sat back heavily. Frankie was always moody but his behavior in the last few months had been more erratic than usual. He did seem to be thin; she really couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him eat a proper meal. Her gut instinct, and the evidence in front of her, now that she'd bothered to examine it, told her that Scud was probably right.

Something struck her. "Scud." He stiffened but lifted his gaze to meet hers. "You said... you were familiar..." Quickly she scanned his wrists and arms, but there were no visible track marks.

He shook his head. Bending, he unfastened one of his boots, then slipped off his sock.

The network of collapsed and scarred veins mottling his foot up to the ankle was grotesque. Lucy slowly let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "How long have you been clean?"

It was his turn to be nonplussed. "What makes you so sure I am?"

"There's no way you could have done — " a gesture encompassed the pile of Scud's handiwork " — all this if you were high. You're too focused, and you care too much about your results. Besides," she crooked a smile, "Daddy wouldn't have hired you."

He covered the pause by putting his sock back on and relacing his boot. "Year and a half," he said eventually. "I got clean during the six months I was in prison, stayed clean since."