CamCat Books - Summer & Fall 2024 Sampler

Laura Wetsel

Sadera

Renée Schaeffer

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THESE ARE UNCORRECTED PROOFS. PLEASE DO NOT QUOTE FOR PUBLICATION UNTIL YOU CHECK YOUR COPY AGAINST THE FINISHED BOOK.

Excerpt from The Shabti © 2024 by Megaera C. Lorenz / Fantasy

Excerpt from The Boy From Two Worlds © 2024 by Jason Offutt / Horror

Excerpt from When I Was Alice © 2024 by Jennifer Murgia / Mystery

Excerpt from The Building That Wasn't © 2024 by Abigail Miles / Science Fiction

Excerpt from Dare to Au Pair © 2024 by Maia Correll / Romance

Excerpt from The Summer of Love and Death © 2024 by Marcy McCreary / Mystery

Excerpt from The Mechanics of Memory © 2024 by Audrey Lee / Science Fiction

Excerpt from Burnt Ends © 2024 by Laura Wetsel / Mystery

Excerpt from The Registration Rewritten © 2024 by Madison Lawson / Dystopian

Excerpt from Haven © 2024 by Mia Dalia / Horror

Excerpt from I Know She Was There © 2024 by Jennifer Sadera / Thriller

Excerpt from Ageless © 2024 by Renée Schaeffer / Science Fiction

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INTRODUCTION. CamCat Publishing, LLC, opened for business in 2019. Our founder, Sue Arroyo, launched the company for the love of story, those tales that bewitch and dazzle you, grab hold of you and won’t let go. She calls them Books to Live In.

’Cause that’s what she did when growing up. She was a bookworm who lived and breathed stories the way her friends would live and breathe the cool kid on the block or the latest rock star. To her, the characters in her books were the cool kids and rock stars. Who needs awkward teenage parties when you can live epic adventures, find romance, and save the day right there in your mind as you read that favorite book? You know, the one with the creased edges.

Sue is a self-proclaimed entrepreneur. CamCat Publishing is her seventh company. In early 2019, she sold her interest in her most successful business, Trident Technologies, and was able to turn her substantial business skills towards her life-long passion for books.

That’s not a surprise. Growing up, the books Sue read taught her that anything is possible. Anything. And precisely this belief motivated and sustained her as a female entrepreneur pushing that glass ceiling time and again. It was only a matter of time until she’d put her mind and heart and business acumen back to books.

Sue brings a fresh perspective to publishing, a strong desire to establish long-term relationships with both authors and readers, and a passion for a great story.

Therefore, CamCat Publishing is more than a publisher. CamCat Publishing is the sum of its readers and writers . . . and then some. We facilitate and engage in communication between readers and writers because that’s where the magic happens. We involve our authors and readers every step of the way—in the process of choosing the books we publish, the formats in which we offer them, even the way we advertise and publicize them.

But in all this, there’s one thing we never forget. Yes, books are products to sell, but they are something else, too. They are the expression of an author’s creativity and the touchstone for a reader’s imagination. When the two meet, something extraordinary happens. We walk in other people’s shoes and see the world anew.

We appreciate your time and the opportunity to earn that spot on your shelf.

Can you flimflam a ghost?

It’s 1934. Former medium Dashiel Quicke travels the country debunking spiritualism and false mediums while struggling to stay ahead of his ex-business partner and lover who wants him back at any cost. During a demonstration at a college campus, Dashiel meets Hermann Goschalk, an Egyptologist who’s convinced that he has a genuine haunted artifact on his hands. Certain there is a rational explanation for whatever is going on with Hermann’s relics, Dashiel would rather skip town, but soon finds himself falling for Hermann. He agrees to take a look after all and learns that something is haunting Hermann’s office indeed.

Faced with a real ghost Dashiel is terrified, but when the haunting takes a dangerous turn, he must use the tools of the shady trade he left behind to communicate with this otherworldly spirit before his past closes in.

“With a well-researched, irresistible premise and well-drawn characters . . . this is a delightful debut.” Booklist

Megaera C. Lorenz is an Egyptologist and professional tech writer/ editor who is fascinated with all things odd and uncanny. After earning her Ph.D. from the University of Chicago in 2017, she decided to pursue her lifelong interest in creative writing. She loves to craft stories that tap into her interests and expertise and combine them in strange and surprising ways. She has lived in the Chicagoland area for nearly 20 years. Currently, she resides in St. Charles, IL with her family, which includes two kids, two cats, and a hyperactive Belgian Tervuren.

MEGAERA C. LORENZ

MEGAERA C. LORENZ

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Megaera C. Lorenz

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310092

Paperback ISBN 9780744310108

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310139

eBook ISBN 9780744310122

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310146

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023948094

Cover and book design by Daniel Cantada

5 3 1 2 4

TO ROBERT RITNER AN EXCELLENT AKH TRUE OF VOICE

CHAPTER

1 NM

DASHIEL QUICKE SAT AT the center of the stage, head bowed, a shimmering stream of ectoplasm flowing from his open mouth. Overhead, white-hot arc lamps illuminated the ethereal discharge as it cascaded over his lap. Perspiration prickled his scalp and soaked his shirt collar, but he welcomed the punishing heat of the lights. He’d spent enough time working under the cover of darkness. He was a man with precious little left to hide.

His audience’s watchful eyes bored into him. The atmosphere was thick with their morbid curiosity. Even at a demonstration like this one, Dashiel didn’t shy away from theatrics. If tonight’s crowd of gawkers took nothing else from the experience, they would at least leave entertained. His shoulders heaved and he swayed in his seat as the ectoplasm continued to unfurl, pooling on the floor at his feet in a filmy heap. His hands, resting on his knees with the palms facing up, twitched spastically.

Someone in the audience let out a low whistle. Another onlooker, seated closer to the stage, groaned in disgust.

“Holy cats, mister,” said a voice from somewhere in the middle seats. “How much of that stuff you got in there?” A handful of the heckler’s neighbors broke out in raucous laughter.

Dashiel pulled the tail end of the ectoplasm out of his mouth, then rose to his feet and moved to the edge of the stage. He held

it aloft in front of him, spreading it out wide between his hands. The ends trailed down on either side of him, sweeping up dust and grime from the battered floorboards as he walked.

“I hope you’re all duly impressed by what you’ve seen here tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Your average Spiritualist would tell you that it’s impossible to produce ectoplasm under these conditions. It’s sensitive stuff. Disintegrates under full light, you see. The theory has it that light disrupts the ectenic force that the spirits use to manifest it out of the medium’s body.”

He paused, waiting for the crowd to settle. There was a smattering of whispers and laughter from the gaggle of hooligans in the middle seats. In the second row, a young woman snapped her gum with a sharp crack. Her neighbor swatted her arm and giggled.

“What they won’t tell you,” Dashiel went on, “is that it’s made of common cheesecloth. Or muslin, if you’re the type of medium who likes to live large and spring for the good stuff. It doesn’t really matter which one you use, though. Either one looks mighty impressive if you’ve got a dark séance room and a strong will to believe. They’re both just about infinitely compressible—perfect for hiding in tight spaces, away from the prying eyes and hands of doubters and debunkers. And to answer your question, young man,” he added, smiling in the direction of his heckler in the middle seats, “unless the fellow at the general store shorted me, it’s exactly three yards.”

Satisfied that everyone had gotten a good look at the ectoplasm, Dashiel walked back to the center of the stage. Paint splatters, scuffs, and the faded remnants of spike marks from past theatrical productions marred the dark floorboards, which creaked beneath his feet with every step.

Like most campus theaters where he had performed, this one was a humble affair. It held enough seats for about two hundred spectators. Only a battered chalkboard sign outside the front

entrance served to announce his performance that evening. Tonight Only, it proclaimed, Renowned Ex-Spirit Medium Dashiel Quicke Unveils the Dark Secrets of the Psychic Flimflam Racket!

“My spiritual instrument is speaking to me again,” Dashiel said, nimbly winding up the trailing ribbon of muslin ectoplasm. The length of cloth vanished within seconds into a bundle small enough to fit between his cheek and his gums. “I’m receiving a very strong impression. The spirits have a gift for someone who is here in the theater tonight.”

Someone in the audience snickered. Dashiel blithely ignored them. He tossed the roll of muslin onto the rickety table in the center of the stage, where it joined several other tools of his trade—a dented tin trumpet decorated with bands of phosphorescent paint, a stack of cards inscribed with forged spirit messages, and a fluffy drift of white chiffon veils. He turned his attention to the audience, squinting at them past the glare of the footlights and the bluish cigarette smoke hanging low and heavy in the air beyond the stage.

The spring of 1934 was proving to be a cold and dreary one, and that always meant good business. The house wasn’t packed, but there was a decent crowd. Except for a lone middle-aged gentleman in brown tweeds seated in the front row, the audience was overwhelmingly youthful. Bored college boys and girls filled most of the seats, their dreams of necking with their sweethearts under the mellow April moon dashed by the chilly weather. So far, they had reacted to his routine with rowdy enthusiasm.

To these people, Dashiel was an amusing curiosity, a rainy-day diversion that they’d likely soon forget. He could only hope that he’d serve as an edifying cautionary tale for some of them as well.

A few short years ago, he’d drawn a different sort of crowd indeed. Throngs of affluent true believers once sat through his demonstrations in the chapel at Camp Walburton, eyes shining with devotion, entranced by his every word and gesture. When

he closed his eyes, he could see himself there again, dressed in a pristine white suit and wreathed in the scents of fresh-cut chancel flowers and sandalwood instead of sawdust, cigarettes, and halfdried paint.

No point in dwelling. This was the path he’d chosen for himself.

“Is there,” he asked, pressing his fingers to his temples, “a Professor Hermann Goschalk among us?”

It came as no surprise to Dashiel when the man in the tweed suit rose to his feet. He clutched his hat to his chest and cleared his throat, glancing around as if expecting some other fellow to step up and identify himself as the person in question.

“Um, I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “That’s my name. Do you mean . . . me?”

Dashiel smiled. “Unless there is more than one Hermann Goschalk in the audience, then I think I must. Join me on stage, if you please, sir.”

Professor Goschalk made his way to the stage, accompanied by scattered applause, whoops, and whistles. In Dashiel’s experience, there were few things that a collegiate audience liked better than the prospect of a faculty member making a spectacle of himself on stage, and this crowd proved to be no exception.

The professor didn’t seem to mind. He trotted up the steps and stood smiling shyly at Dashiel like a starstruck kid meeting a matinée idol.

“Hello!” he said.

“Good evening, Professor,” said Dashiel, with a brief bow. “Please, be seated.” The professor nodded, blinking owlishly under the blazing lights, and took a seat in one of the two folding chairs beside the stage’s central table.

Hermann Goschalk was a little gray mouse of a man, about fifty years old. Dashiel guessed that his well-worn suit was at least

half as old as its wearer. His rumpled brown hair was generously streaked with silver, and he had large, uncommonly expressive hazel eyes—an excellent asset in a sitter. The more demonstrative the face, the greater the sympathetic response the unwitting shill would arouse in the audience.

“Thank you,” said Dashiel. He sat down in the other chair and fixed the professor with a penetrating gaze. “Before we proceed, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, just to get my bearings. I want to be absolutely sure I do have the right Hermann Goschalk, after all.”

“Of course!”

“Wonderful. Now, stop me if I’m mistaken in any detail. You are a member of the faculty here at Dupris University, a professor of Ancient Studies, specializing in the language and civilization of the ancient Egyptians. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s absolutely correct,” said Goschalk, with an enthusiastic nod.

“Very good.” Dashiel inclined his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if drawing his next morsel of information from some deep, inscrutable well of hidden knowledge. “Is it true that you used to keep a black cat in your younger days, back when you worked as an assistant druggist at that pharmacy in—”

“Milwaukee, yes!” Professor Goschalk’s astonished expression couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d rehearsed it. “Good heavens, you even know about old Tybalt?”

“I do,” said Dashiel, with a solemn nod. “He must have been quite the beloved companion.”

The professor chuckled. “Oh, he was a terrible little yungatsh. He’d lie there in the windowsill soaking up the sun and hissing at anybody who dared to get too close. Did a fine job keeping the store free of mice, though.” He smiled fondly. “Papa always said a pharmacy without a cat was a pharmacy without a soul.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. He was the drugstore cat. Your father owned the pharmacy, and he was hoping you’d carry on the family business. But you longed for greater things. You decided to pursue a degree in Egyptology. Once you completed your studies, you came to work here . . . about fifteen years ago.”

“Gracious, yes! But how on earth did you know all these things?”

“Before a second ago, I knew hardly any of it,” said Dashiel. “All I knew was that you once worked in a pharmacy and had a black cat. Just enough detail to impress you—and get you talking. It wasn’t too hard to put the rest together from there.” He winked and patted the professor on the shoulder. “I daresay you’d be a plum customer in the séance room, Professor Goschalk.”

Goschalk gaped at him. “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun,” he said. Laughter rippled through the audience.

“Thank you, Professor, you’ve been very obliging,” Dashiel went on. “But if you don’t mind me taking just a little more of your time, there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you before I let you go. At this moment, the spirits are telling me that you recently lost something of great sentimental value. Is that true?”

The professor nodded. “As a matter of fact, I have. Gosh, how uncanny! It was a cabinet card of my mother. I’ve kept it on my office desk for years, but I noticed it was gone not two weeks ago. I can’t imagine what could have happened to it.”

“That is too bad. But perhaps we can help you find it again.” Dashiel rose and moved to stand behind Professor Goschalk, resting his hands lightly on the man’s shoulders. He gazed out at the audience and spoke in a booming, authoritative tone. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness one of the most powerful forms of mediumistic manifestation. But I must ask for your help in amplifying our connection to the spirit realm. Please, raise your voices in a hymn of praise.”

He nodded to the elderly organ player stationed at stage right. She curtly returned his nod, then began to grind out a shaky but serviceable rendition of “From the Other Shore.” Three or four voices in the audience piped up with gusto, while a handful of others mumbled along uncertainly. It was hardly the sort of performance he would have gotten from his regular Sunday evening congregation back at the camp, but it would have to do. Dashiel let his eyes flutter closed, allowed his head to loll back as if he were falling into a trance.

“Dear ones who have passed beyond the veil,” he intoned above the drone of the organ, “we beseech thee to reunite this gentleman with his lost portrait of his beloved mother. Keep singing, ladies and gentlemen! I am sensing a vibration from the other side. The spirits are with us!” He raised his arms in a dramatic, sweeping gesture, and as he did so, an object tumbled into Professor Goschalk’s lap.

“Oh!” said the professor.

“Oooh!” echoed the audience.

Dashiel lowered his arms, letting his hands come to rest on the back of Goschalk’s chair. He nodded again to the organist, who stopped playing. “Thank you, Mrs. Englebert. Please, Professor Goschalk—tell us what you have just received.”

Goschalk pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the inner pocket of his jacket and slipped them on. Slowly, he picked up the item in his lap and squinted at it. He turned in his seat and blinked up at Dashiel in amazement. “Why . . . it’s my photograph!”

“The same cabinet card of your mother that used to sit on your desk?”

“The very same, down to the faded spot in the corner. Oh, that is magnificent. Absolutely phenomenal!”

Dashiel bowed and smiled graciously as the audience burst into whistles and hearty applause. “Thank you, Professor. Ladies and

gentlemen, what you have just seen is known in the spook business as an ‘apport.’ Impressive, yes? But of course, like everything else I have demonstrated this evening, a complete hoax. I hope you’ll forgive me, Professor, when I explain that this photograph was stolen from your desk, in broad daylight, by one of my own personal agents—someone who is, what’s more, entirely corporeal and very much alive.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Goschalk, his eyes more saucer-like than ever.

“It was a simple matter for me to obtain a list of the names of people who bought advance tickets for tonight’s demonstration. Having selected your name from the list, I sent my young assistant to gather some basic intelligence. Your students and colleagues were happy to share a few choice tidbits of information with someone who, they assumed, was a prospective pupil in the Ancient Studies program.”

There was some crowing and hooting from the middle-seat gang. “Oooh, Professor,” one of them called out, “he got you good!”

Dashiel raised his voice, speaking over the brief uproar of merriment that followed. “That, Professor Goschalk, is how I learned of your position in the department, your time as an assistant druggist, and yes—even old Tybalt. As for your photograph, all that my accomplice had to do was to pay a brief visit to your office, posing as a student with a rather vexing academic question. When you got up to consult one of your books, he quietly purloined the cabinet card from your desk. Thank you. You may return to your seat.”

Professor Goschalk rose, clutching hat and photograph, and toddled off the stage, still looking delightfully befuddled. Dashiel was conscious of a pang of wistfulness. Had he still been in the business of fleecing the rich and bereaved, this was exactly the sap he would have wanted front and center at every service.

NM

A stinging wind had picked up by the time Dashiel finished his act and wandered out of the theater. He turned up his collar and huddled against the wall by the side entrance, debating whether to hail a cab or brave the walk back to the modest room he had rented a few blocks away. Absently, he drew one of the last two cigarettes from the crumpled packet in his coat pocket and placed it between his lips.

“Those things are terrible for you, you know,” said a soft, pleasant voice from the shadows.

Dashiel turned, slowly and deliberately, doing his best not to look alarmed. He’d managed to make himself a number of enemies over the past few years, with one thing or another, and he didn’t relish being crept up on in dark alleys. When he saw that it was the little professor from his demonstration, his shoulders relaxed.

“So my doctor tells me,” he answered with a wry smile. “But you can only ask a man to give up so many vices at once.” He slipped the unlit cigarette back into the package and put it away.

Professor Goschalk chuckled. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, looking like a man who had little experience with vices, much less giving them up. “That was all very impressive, by the way, Mr. Quicke. Very impressive. If you hadn’t explained how it was done, you might have made a believer out of me.”

“Well, if I had, you would’ve been in good company, Professor,” Dashiel assured him. “I’ve hoodwinked everyone from medical doctors to bishops.”

“Please, call me Hermann.” He extended a hand, and Dashiel gave it a firm shake.

“Dashiel. It’s a pleasure.”

Hermann’s fingertips lingered on Dashiel’s for a moment as the handshake ended, and his brow furrowed with sympathy. “Oh,

gosh, your hands are like ice! It is awfully cold, isn’t it? Well, this is what passes for spring here in Illinois, I’m afraid. Do you have far to go? I can give you a lift.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’m just over on 58th and Crestview.”

Hermann beamed, and Dashiel realized that he was handsome, in his understated way. He wasn’t sure how it had escaped his notice before. “Perfect!” Hermann said. “There’s a nice little diner on Crestview. Please, let me treat you to dinner. Unless you have other plans, of course.”

“No plans,” Dashiel admitted with a hint of wariness. In his experience, this sort of amiable generosity tended to come with strings attached. However, the ex-medium business wasn’t a lucrative one, and he was in no position to balk at the offer of a free meal. Besides, it had been a while since he’d dined with anyone socially, and the notion appealed to him. “Dinner sounds swell.”

NM

They were hailed with a chorus of friendly greetings the moment they stepped into the Nite Owl Diner, one of those sleek little modern establishments that looked like a converted railcar. They sat across from each other in a cozy booth, lit by the yellowish glow of the lightbulb hanging overhead.

With Hermann’s hearty encouragement, Dashiel ordered a dinner of roast lamb, buttered corn, and whipped potatoes that seemed extravagant by his recent standard of living. Coils of fragrant, shimmering steam wafted invitingly from the plate. He willed himself to take small bites, resisting the urge to scarf it all down.

“You must be quite the regular here,” he said.

Hermann looked a little sheepish. “I suppose I do come here a lot. But their tongue sandwiches are truly the gnat’s whiskers, especially after a late evening marking papers.”

“This lamb goes down easy, too. Much obliged, by the way.”

“Not at all!”

Dashiel took a sip of coffee before casually continuing. “So, the missus doesn’t mind all those late evenings at the office, eh?” He was still casing the man, like one of his marks. In the old days, he would have gone home and written up a nice little file after a social tête-à-tête like this. Personal information, no matter how trivial, was a medium’s true stock-in-trade, and old habits die hard.

“Oh, there’s no missus,” said Hermann, his cheeks pinkening. “I suppose I’m what you’d call a confirmed bachelor. No, it’s just me and Horatio.”

Dashiel raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Horatio?”

“My cat.”

“Ah.”

“Didn’t the spirits tell you all this?” Hermann asked, blinking innocently. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just making fun. What about you? Do you have any family?”

“Just my sister, back in Tampa. But I haven’t heard from her in some time.”

“Ah,” said Hermann. “A Florida man.”

“That I am. Born and raised in Tarpon Springs. My work took me all over, though. Before I left the business, I spent several years at one of the big Spiritualist camps in Indiana. But you heard about that at my demonstration.”

Hermann nodded. He paused, as if weighing his words. Dashiel fancied that the flush in his cheeks grew a little deeper. “You mentioned an accomplice before. The person who purloined my photograph. Do you always work with a partner?”

“Oh, no. That was just a kid I hired for a couple of bucks to do the job for me, before the act. These days, I’m on my own.” He hoped this answer would be enough to satisfy Hermann’s curiosity.

The evening had been pleasant so far, and he had no desire to sour the mood by discussing the details of his former working arrangements. That way led to a morass of painful memories he’d rather not retread.

Lost in thought, Hermann scraped some horseradish sauce over a slice of bread. When he spoke again, Dashiel was relieved that he had moved on to a different subject. “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why you decided to give it all up. As good as you are, you must have made a mint!”

“And how,” Dashiel agreed, a little wistfully. “But I suppose even the most vestigial conscience starts to get a bit inflamed when you’re bilking little old ladies out of their inheritance day in and day out. I just plain got sick of it.”

“Hmm. And now you’ve made it your life’s mission to expose all that fraud and humbuggery to the world. It’s kind of poetical, don’t you think?” Hermann leaned forward, his big hazel eyes shining. “I mean, who better to uncover a hoax than someone who knows exactly how it’s done? All those parapsychologists and ghost-hunters and whatnot must have nothing on someone with your experience!”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Which reminds me,” he went on, a little more hesitantly. “If it’s not too much of an imposition, I was wondering if you might help me with something.”

Ah, there it is. As always, the ulterior motive.

Dashiel felt a sting of disappointment. He’d found himself enjoying Hermann’s company for its own sake. Still, whatever he wanted, maybe it would pay something. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

“It’s—well, I feel a bit silly saying it,” said Hermann, looking abashed. “But you see, in addition to being a professor here at Dupris, I’m also the curator of our modest collection of

Egyptian antiquities. Sometimes I keep very late hours in the research archive upstairs from the museum, and lately, I’ve been noticing some, er, very strange activity in the building at night.”

“Strange activity,” repeated Dashiel, narrowing his eyes. “As in . . . ?”

Hermann fiddled with his fork. “Oh, you know. Weird noises. Things moving around when they ought not to. And, um, the bleeding walls. That sort of thing.”

“The bleeding what?”

“I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s become more and more bothersome lately. I’ve had to stop bringing Horatio to work with me because it unsettles him, you see. The students have been asking after him, and I can’t very well explain all this to them, can I? I mean, what would I say? And I know this is going to sound a bit peculiar, especially to you. But I just can’t shake the feeling that it’s, you know.” He glanced around before continuing, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The real McCoy.”

Dashiel set down his silverware and sat back, nonplussed. “Hermann, I must confess, I’m surprised. And a little disappointed. I thought you understood that the whole point of my demonstration this evening was to show that all that spirit stuff is bunkum.”

“Of course, of course,” said Hermann, now blushing a deep red. “But just because most mediumship is bunk doesn’t necessarily mean that there’s no such thing as spirits, does it? Anyway, whatever I’m experiencing, if it is a hoax—”

“I assure you, it is.”

“Yes, well, if it is, why, I bet you’d sniff it out quicker than I could say Jack Robinson. You must know all the tricks.”

“I suppose you do have a point there,” Dashiel conceded.

“I’m sure you’re right, of course. Only, if you’d just come and take a look, it would surely set my mind at ease. And, naturally, I’d compensate you for your time . . .”

He looked so comically earnest and plaintive that Dashiel had to fight back a chuckle. “All right, all right,” he said, dabbing his mouth with his napkin to hide his amusement. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. I was planning to spend another day or two in town anyway. Shall I drop by tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, you’re a mensch!” said Hermann, beaming with gratitude. “Tomorrow morning would be perfect.”

Available now, wherever books are sold.

CAN YOU FLIMFLAM A GHOST?

t’s 1934. Former medium Dashiel Quicke travels the country debunking spiritualism and false mediums while struggling to stay ahead of his ex-business partner and lover who wants him back at any cost. During a demonstration at a college campus, Dashiel meets Hermann Goschalk, an Egyptologist who’s convinced that he has a genuine haunted artifact on his hands. Certain there is a rational explanation for whatever is going on with Hermann’s relics, Dashiel would rather skip town, but soon finds himself falling for Hermann. He agrees to take a look after all and learns that something is haunting Hermann’s office indeed.

Faced with a real ghost, Dashiel is terrified, but when the haunting takes a dangerous turn, he must use the tools of the shady trade he left behind to communicate with this otherworldly spirit before his past closes in.

Evil comes in pretty packages.

Thomas Cavanaugh’s life is now a blur, a blend of foggy memories and hidden horrors. When his fae girlfriend Jillian begins to act strangely, he wonders whether he should put an end to their relationship. Then Jillian does the unthinkable and vanishes with four-year-old Jacob Jenkins, a boy with terrifying supernatural powers. Suddenly, years later, Jacob reappears unaged, claiming to have been in another world.

Sheriff Glenn is called in to investigate a series of violent murders, all with evidence pointing toward the boy from two worlds. Someone with dark magic is devouring souls but for what purpose? Thomas and his allies must prepare for a bloody final battle before their world is completely swept away into another, with no way to get home.

“[An] unholy mash-up of creepy, high-body-count paranormal thrills . . . Readers will find themselves well sated before the end.” Publishers Weekly, on The Girl in the Corn

Jason Offutt grew up in a haunted farmhouse in rural Missouri. His latest fiction is the award-winning The Girl in the Corn, Jason’s first horror/dark fantasy novel. He is best known for science fiction, such as his time and dimension hopping novel So You Had to Build a Time Machine, Bad Day for the Apocalypse, and How to Kill Monsters Using Common Household Objects. Jason teaches university journalism and cooks for his family. You can find more about Jason at his website, www.jasonoffutt.com.

The Girl in the Corn #2

PRAISE FOR

The Girl in the Corn

“[An] unholy mash-up of creepy, high-body-count paranormal thrills . . . Readers will find themselves well sated before the end.”

Publishers Weekly

“The Girl in the Corn is a haunting, unsettling, gripping novel. I will have nightmares of circles filled with needle teeth for years to come. In these cornfields are such original, disturbing beasts— I was hypnotized by their presence on the page.”

—Richard Thomas, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson nominee

“Norse mythology gives this story . . . a unique touch [with] an exhilarating conclusion.” Booklist

THEBoY F ROM wtwoorlds

THEBoY F ROM wtwoorlds

Jason Offu t t

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Jason Offutt

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744308242

Paperback ISBN 9780744308259

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744308273

eBook ISBN 9780744308266

Audiobook ISBN 9780744308280

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by A-Digit, Bitter, Bortonia, Oksancia

5 3 1 2 4

For AC⚡DC.

You boys have pulled me out of more than one writing rut over the years. And that ain’t noise pollution, man. ✌

ST. JOE ANGEL OF DEATH IDENTIFIED

By CHAD CLAYTON News-Press Staff Writer

ST. JOSEPH, Mo., Dec. 26—

Through DNA tests, authorities have identified the orchestrator of the domestic terrorist attack that killed 462 people in St. Joseph, Missouri, just before Christmas, mostly patients and staff at St. Joseph Children’s Hospital. St. Joseph native Robert Patrick Garrett rigged the chain of explosions, which involved many underground gasoline tanks at downtown convenience stores, that injured more than 1,500 others and resulted in $3.2 billion in property damage.

Garrett, dubbed the “St. Joe Angel of Death” by bloggers and true-crime podcasters, murdered 16-year-old camper Ronald Henry

Johnson at Smithville Lake in 1990, and spent four years in the Missouri Juvenile Detention Facility in Cameron before being committed to psychiatric care for two more years at Sisters of Mercy Hospital in St. Joseph.

Searching the ruins of the Garrett home in South St. Joseph—that exploded around midnight Dec. 21 with homemade C-4, which killed Buchanan County Sheriff Boyd Donally and Emily Kristiansen—authorities discovered the remains of Garrett’s parents, Todd and Vera Garrett, along with those of Karen Novák and her daughter, Millie. The Nováks went missing in 2005 while selling Girl Scout cookies. -1-

ST. JOE ANGEL OF DEATH IDENTIFIED

Apart from Donally and Kristiansen, Garrett’s victims bore blunt trauma to their heads, St. Joseph Police Chief Emery Trumble said.

“The explosion scattered the house across a two-block area,” he said. “But the bodies were stored by Garrett in the basement and were protected by concrete and brick. We identified the victims’ remains through DNA and dental records. The skulls of the Garretts and Nováks showed signs of being struck repeatedly with a heavy object.”

Investigators from the FBI discovered parts for homemade timers along with ingredients for C-4 in the debris. They also determined Garrett repeatedly searched online for news reports of the Rolling Meadows Mall ricin attack, as well as the arson of the Mid-Buchannan High School that occurred during a basketball game, claiming 60 lives, and the destruction of the Missouri River bridge at Atchison, Kansas, with

Thermite that resulted in 27 more. Prior to each attack, Garrett used his St. Joseph Public Library card to access the internet under the name Jack Torrence, the antagonist of the Stephen King book, “The Shining,” FBI Special Agent Garnett Renfro told the Associated Press.

“His research foreshadowed each attack,” Renfro said.

Garrett died in the explosion that destroyed the children’s hospital where he worked as a custodian. Co-worker Connie Dunwoodie said Garrett came to the hospital the night of the bombing, although he wasn’t scheduled to work.

“Bobby told our manager, Randolph (Blythe), I’d asked him to work for me,” she said. “I never did. I was at work like always. I went outside for a smoke when the bombs went off.” Dunwoodie shook her head. “I’m so lucky.”

Authorities still investigating “The Day St. Joseph Died” are not sure if Garrett acted alone.

ST. JOE ANGEL OF DEATH IDENTIFIED

Found at the center of the attacks were Marguerite Jenkins of Savannah, Missouri, whom Garrett kidnapped after the ricin attack, and Thomas Cavanaugh and Jillian Robertson, a couple from rural Buchanan County. All were injured during the explosions; Jenkins was pregnant with Garrett’s child at the time.

All were questioned by the St. Joseph Police Department and the FBI.

Inquiries for interviews with Jenkins, Cavanaugh and Robertson have been unanswered.

The Beginning of the End

201 7

PROLOGUE

SNOW PAINTED THE bleak landscape white as Kurt Russell, Keith David, and a band of Antarctic scientists and explorers faced a screaming Norwegian helicopter pilot brandishing a West German Heckler and Koch assault rifle. The pilot squeezed off a few rounds at a fleeing dog (a wolf-Alaskan malamute hybrid, Marguerite once read) before shooting an American scientist in the leg, finishing a screaming tirade in Norwegian with, “Kom dere vekk, idioter!”

The pilot jerked backward, falling to the snow, when Antarctic Outpost 31 Commander M. T. Garry shot him in the eye. Not one of the Americans realized the Norwegian was actually yelling, “Get the hell away! It’s not a dog, it’s some sort of thing! It’s imitating a dog, it isn’t real! Get away, you idiots!”

Marguerite Jenkins sat on the couch in her mother’s house, her sore legs up on a footstool, a bowl of popcorn resting on her swollen belly as she watched John Carpenter Weekend on TMC.

“Americans are so stupid,” she said through a full mouth, kernel shrapnel scattering down her turquoise maternity blouse.

As if Baby Jenkins heard her, he rolled in her uterus, like a human body was built for this kind of torture.

Dear God, nature was the worst.

“Do you need anything, honey?” her mother asked from the kitchen.

After her father died when she was young, Linda Jenkins turned into the mom Marguerite had grown up envying on black-and-white sitcom reruns. She felt guilty now that she couldn’t move without hurting, but it was nice when—

A dull ache pushed through her lower abdomen; if her pelvis had a mouth it would have screamed.

“Oh,” she said, wrapping her arms around her belly. A warm wetness soaked through her panties and sweatpants onto the couch, then ran down both legs.

“You all right?” Linda said, poking her head around the corner. Marguerite grabbed another handful of popcorn and stuffed it into her mouth.

“I really wanna finish The Thing,” she said, “but I think I need to go to the hospital. Can you TiVo the rest?” [ 2 ]

Fireflies streaked through the darkness on Carlyle Street like tiny comets dancing in the night. The insects Glenn chased on his parents’ farm as a child, and the net of silence cast over the dead street, painted broad strokes of peace over the evil that once lived in the house at 4244.

Not all the evil had gone.

A red face stared at Glenn Kirkhoff—Sheriff Glenn Kirkhoff—in the flashlight beam he shone on the old foundation. A simple face as if it had been painted by the hand of a child—round, with a wide, smiling, triangular mouth—but what sent a chill through Kirkhoff’s already tight shoulders were the teeth. Long, sharp, pointed, like one of those freaky-looking deep-sea fish they show on Animal Planet.

Kirkhoff stood with his thumbs in his big black belt like he’d seen Boyd do countless times. The flames, the smoke, the explosion were

long gone from this address. So was Boyd. What connected Boyd to this hole in the ground that once held up the house where he and his girlfriend died six months ago was that face. That creepy goddamn face once painted in blood on walls in Elvin Miller’s house and Carrie McMasters’s house, places where a spouse had butchered their significant other with a bladed object: Miller an ax, McMasters a butcher knife.

And the thing was here.

“What were you into, Boyd?” Kirkhoff whispered, the far-off grumble of a car engine the only sound in this old, lonely neighborhood.

He swung by Carlyle Street whenever he came to this part of St. Joe, drawn by that painted face. Somebody, probably the city, cleaned out the wreckage of the old Victorian home, mowed the lawn, and prepared the property for auction.

The sooner this puckered butthole of the world was buried in dirt or garbage, or the foundation destroyed and hauled off, the better. The destruction Robert Garrett had rained over St. Joseph, Missouri, needed to be buried in the past. The city had erased the many downtown scars, only one replaced with a memorial. The plaque read: “St. Joseph Children’s Hospital. Two-Hundred Forty-Three Innocent Lives Lost. May We Never Forget.”

Innocent. No one was ever innocent. A career in law enforcement had taught him that.

His mobile phone buzzed in the front pants pocket of his uniform. He pulled it out. Linda. Margie’s mom. The one good thing to come from the explosions and fires that raged in this city: Marguerite Jenkins got free from that psycho Bobby Garrett.

Kirkhoff swiped his thumb toward the green button and answered: “Hello?”

“Glenn,” Linda said, her voice high and tight as a military haircut.

“Linda?” he said, his own voice calm. Hostage negotiation training worked in so many situations. “Try to speak calmly and tell me what’s the matter.”

Linda’s phone crackled as she shifted it. The horn honk came through to Kirkhoff muted. “Pull over, you son of a bitch,” she shouted. Linda was inside a car.

“Mom.” It was Margie, her voice subdued, away from the phone.

“I’m sorry, Glenn, honey,” Linda said. “Some jerk swerved into our lane.”

Great. Exactly what I need. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“Oh, my,” Linda mumbled before answering. “Eastside Hospital. Glenn, it’s Marguerite. She’s having the baby. You got anyone between Savannah and St. Joe that can give us an escort?”

Kirkhoff’s spine shot him up straight. He’d known Margie since high school. She’s a great kid. Kid. Hell, she’s in her thirties and having a baby. She’s no kid. His jaw muscles tightened. She was having Bobby Garrett’s baby.

“I’ll come myself.” Kirkhoff moved away from the empty, blackened foundation, taking one more look at the horror of a child’s painting. “It’s important for you to take a few deep breaths. It takes a while for a baby to come, especially if it’s the first one.”

The door to the cruiser opened in silence, and Kirkhoff slid behind the wheel. “I’ll meet you on the highway,” he said. “What are you driving?”

Linda’s exhale, loud as the smoker she was, came through the phone: “A 2015 white Ford Escape.” The panic in her voice nearly gone. “You were always such a good boy.”

[ 3 ]

The phone dropped into the seat between Marguerite and Linda, Marguerite scooping it up before her mother made another whackadoo danger call to Glenn or Thomas or anyone else. Thomas Cavanaugh. A constant thought between each of the growing contractions was she wanted him to be in the Ford Escape with her, driving her to the

hospital instead of her mother. Thomas was strong and gentle and wouldn’t scream “Pull over, you son of a bitch” at oncoming traffic. Linda’s definition of “our lane” probably differed from other drivers’, or law enforcement’s. A voice, small but powerful, said, Slow down. Marguerite looked around the cab of the car, but she and her mother were the only ones there.

And the voice, it—it—

Was it a voice, she wondered, if it came from inside my head?

“You can slow down, Mom,” Marguerite said, the words calm. “My contractions are still pretty far apart. We don’t have to hurry.”

Actually, the intensity of her contractions had decreased since the first powerful pull when her water broke. If that hadn’t happened, she thought she’d probably blame the slight twinges on Braxton-Hicks, or Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

“You don’t know that,” Linda barked.

Oh, Mom was in a tizzy, all right.

Marguerite pushed herself back in her seat to stretch out her belly. That kid didn’t leave much room for anything. “I do, Mom. I went to all those classes. They told me what to expect, and although they didn’t specifically tell me to expect my mother to kill me in a car accident on the way to the hospital, I’m sure it was implied.”

“But—” Linda started.

Now, the voice said flatly, plainly.

“Now!”

Linda backed her foot off the accelerator and braked until they reached the speed limit of the rural highway just as an old Chevy pickup careened around a sharp curve into their lane. The pickup’s horn blared as it cut through the spot of the road where Linda’s Escape would have been if she hadn’t slowed. Linda screamed as the truck swerved around them, hit the ditch, and popped back onto the blacktop, never slowing.

That was you, wasn’t it? Marguerite thought. You told me that, Jakie.

“That goddammed lunatic almost killed us!” Linda shouted, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” Marguerite said, smiling as she rubbed her belly. A wave of calm drifted through the car. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Glenn sat in his Crown Vic cruiser on a gravel access road in the median between US 71 North and US 71 South. Some jerk-off in a fourby-four GMC—with stacks behind the cab, going at least 80 mph in a 65 zone—hit his brakes once he saw the sheriff’s car pointed in his direction. Today was that redneck’s lucky day; Glenn had something more important to worry about.

The child’s drawing of the bloody, toothy face slapped onto the basement wall of the missing house stuck with him. It had since December. Merry freaking Christmas; here’s a nightmare—oh, and let’s kill your friend to really drive the message home. The face came to him in his sleep. It came to him when he fried an egg too round. Then there was Dakota.

Dear Lord. Two months ago, Glenn had been sitting at his sister’s table drinking coffee when his niece danced into the kitchen and flopped into the chair next to his.

“Hey, Uncle Sheriff,” she said, the suppressed giggle pulling her face into every adorable shape possible.

Glenn leaned forward and spoke, coffee on his breath. “Hey, Niece Gigglemonster,” he said.

A laugh, as true as only a four-year-old can make, erupted from her. “Wanna see the picture I drawed?”

“Drew,” Kirkhoff’s sister Kathy said from where she was speaking on her mobile phone; their mom was on the other end, and Mom was in a snit.

Dakota pulled a sheet of printer paper from behind her back and slapped it onto the table in front of Glenn. His stomach fell in a steep roller-coaster drop. A red crayon in his niece Dakota’s hand had drawn a circle with a huge triangular mouth and rows of sharp needle teeth. A spot of blood hung at the edge of the paper.

“Do you like it?” she asked, looking up at him.

When his eyes met hers, all he saw were black wells.

“No,” he mumbled, his feet fighting for purchase on the linoleum as his legs churned to push him back, away from this—

“Glenn!” Kathy snapped.

Glenn’s chair tipped and clattered to the floor, spilling him next to the refrigerator, plenty of Dakota’s drawings over his head held in place by magnets.

His sister stood, a hand over the phone. “What’s wrong with you?”

He shook his head and looked up at Dakota. She sat, silent, tears welling in her eyes; the drawing in her hands was of her family done in brown, yellow, blue, and green crayons. There was no circle, no teeth, no red, no blood. But I saw it. I saw it.

Kathy stood over him. “Are you all right?”

No. I am not.

“I don’t feel so good, all of a sudden,” he said. “I should probably go home.”

He pushed himself to his feet, kissed Dakota on top of the head, and left. As he sat in the cruiser now, his mind on Dakota’s drawing, he nearly missed the white Escape blast past him on its way to the hospital. [ 5 ]

Lights, red and blue, flashed in the mirrors of the Escape, Marguerite smiling as the sheriff’s cruiser moved into the left lane and passed them. She waved at Glenn, who couldn’t see her, before he pulled in front of them and escorted them toward St. Joseph. The official

law-enforcement escort made her feel like a dignitary, or a celebrity, or drug lord.

“You’re going to be fine, honey,” Linda said, her voice still tight as a lug nut. “Glenn’ll get us there safely.”

Marguerite smiled because she already knew that. A warmth spread through her like the first time she had a shot of whiskey. No, that wasn’t right. It was the warmth that radiated from her chest to her face, through her arms and loins. The warmth she felt whenever Thomas came to visit. But Thomas always brought Jillian, so Marguerite kept her distance and held her tongue, although sometimes she couldn’t keep her gaze; it landed on Thomas’s and both lingered a bit too long.

A flutter danced inside her; the contractions were coming faster, she guessed.

“Is having a baby supposed to tickle?”

Linda’s head turned, her face momentarily frozen in a grimace. “No,” she said, the word coming out in more seconds than two letters should allow. “It hurts like hell. Do your contractions tickle?”

A long exhale forced its way through pursed lips as Marguerite squirmed in her seat.

“Uh, no way. Oh my. It. Ow. OW. It hurts. A lot.”

“That’s normal,” Linda said, her eyes on Glenn’s bumper. “You felt like I was trying to pass a bowling ball. I never thought I’d be able to walk again.”

A giggle welled up inside Marguerite. She slapped her hands over her mouth, but it came out anyway.

“What’s so funny?” Linda asked.

Nothing. Nothing was funny, but the next contraction tickled her again, and Marguerite laughed out loud, the sound an explosion in the car.

“Honey?”

The sheriff’s cruiser signaled, and then pulled onto the off-ramp, the hospital growing in the distance. The contractions grew stronger

and Marguerite bit her bottom lip, simply hoping her nurse was nice and would keep her mom out of the delivery room.

Elizabeth Condon stood at the head of the birthing bed, and the patient, a woman in her thirties, lay beneath a white blanket, her legs in the leg holders making a tent. Elizabeth had been a nurse for twenty-five years: four on the floor, ten in the ER, the rest helping babies into the world. She’d seen nothing like Marguerite Jenkins.

Marguerite’s cervix had dilated from six to nine centimeters in the twenty minutes since she arrived at the hospital. From Elizabeth’s experience, that sort of dilation for a first-time mother would take five to six hours at minimum, and that would be coupled with the moans from contractions and the inevitable “I can’t do this” tears. But Marguerite lay in the birthing bed, her eyes bright, her smile big, clean, and white.

Elizabeth had seen a lot of strange things come through hospital doors, but Marguerite Jenkins was the strangest.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Jenkins?” Elizabeth asked, shifting her weight to get a look at the cardiotocograph. Another contraction, but the patient didn’t even flinch.

“Ope,” Marguerite said. “There’s another one.”

Was that a laugh in her voice?

“How close am I, nurse?” the woman asked. “Can I have my baby now?”

Elizabeth had never felt so unprepared to answer a question in her career. All she wanted was to help deliver this baby, pray to God it was healthy, finish her shift, go home, and have a drink, or two, or three, and forget this night ever happened.

“It’s hard to tell,” Elizabeth said, poking buttons on her pager. “But I think we’re close enough to ring the doctor.”

Marguerite clapped. She freaking clapped before she giggled again.

“Whoa. There’s another contraction,” Marguerite said, twisting her shoulders to look at Elizabeth full-on. A smile decorated the woman’s face. Her skin, bronzed by the sun, glowed with health; there wasn’t a bead of sweat on her. “I’ve heard so many horror stories, but my contractions tickle.”

Something’s seriously wrong here.

The door to Marguerite’s private room soundlessly slid open and Dr. Morrigan swept in, a new nurse in his wake. Elizabeth couldn’t remember her name, but she was young, cute, and blond, which meant she was going places.

“Ms. Jenkins,” the doctor said, grinning his thousand-dollar teeth at the expectant mother, his breath smelling of spearmint Mentos, his blood flowing with low-dose amphetamines. “And how are we feeling?”

Elizabeth hated working with Dr. Phil “Golf is My Life” Morrigan, but it was his night.

“Um, Dr. Morrigan,” Elizabeth started, but he waved her off. Prick.

“I feel great,” Marguerite chirped in a cheerleader sort of way. “Can I have this baby now? Jake’s telling me he’s ready.”

Dr. Morrigan settled himself on a stool at the end of the birthing table and looked up the leg tent, right into the Action Zone. He leaned back enough to see Marguerite over her wide-open legs, his forehead creased.

“Dear Lord,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “The baby’s crowning.” Dr. Morrigan looked up at Elizabeth. “Nurse. Why didn’t you page me sooner?”

That drink sounded better and better.

Marguerite tried to sit up; Elizabeth slapped hands onto the woman’s shoulders and held her down. She tried to shake off Elizabeth’s hands, but the strength from too many years of dealing with patients, heavy medical equipment, and a drunken ex-husband kept Marguerite pinned to the bed.

“What’s happening?” Marguerite asked as calmly as if she’d asked the time.

Elizabeth didn’t flinch. This woman should be screaming.

The Mentos smile pulled at the doctor’s lips. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s fine here.” He pushed the sheet higher on Marguerite’s thighs and settled in. Seconds later, he held a silent baby, its head full of black hair.

“Well, Ms. Jenkins,” he said calmly, although Elizabeth caught the waver in his voice. “You have a perfectly, um, perfectly healthy baby boy.”

Dr. Morrigan stood and stepped toward the head of the birthing bed. The baby lay in his arms, its eyes wide, chest rising and falling steadily. It didn’t blink, it didn’t cry—the umbilical cord was gone, the belly button a hole in the infant’s pudgy tummy.

Jesus Christ.

“Uh, Doctor,” Elizabeth began, but a hard flash of Dr. Morrigan’s eyes cut her off.

His smile returned and his eyes softened as he lowered Jacob Jenkins onto his mother’s now-bare chest. The baby immediately began to nurse.

Marguerite laughed. “He’s an eager little guy, isn’t he?”

He was. Most babies Elizabeth had seen took coaxing to feed. She stood still in her Oofos clogs, staring into the baby’s eyes. Its black irises stared back into hers. It never blinked.

“Nurse,” Elizabeth thought she heard, her eyes trapped by the baby’s. The silent, sucking baby. Darkness pulled a frigid line across the room. The Mentos doctor, the mother, the young blond nurse were all bathed in shadow. Elizabeth’s breath rose in white dragon huffs.

A hand fell on her shoulder. “Nurse.”

Elizabeth broke eye contact with the quiet infant feeding from his mother’s breast. Dr. Morrigan stood next to her, his face white. A line of sweat ran down his temple. The room suddenly became bright again, the temperature its normal 73 degrees Fahrenheit.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Elizabeth said, trying to swallow the vile thoughts inside her. The baby. Something was wrong with the baby.

“Please take”—he paused to look at Marguerite—“Jacob, is it?”

Marguerite’s effortless smile was nothing Elizabeth had ever seen on a mother who had just given birth.

“Yes. I’m going to call him Jake.”

“Then,” Dr. Morrigan said to Elizabeth, “when Jake’s finished feeding, please clean him up, check his vitals, and take him to the nursery.” He motioned to the young blond nurse, who wanted to be anywhere else but here. “Madison will help ease Ms. Jenkins into postpartum recovery.”

“Doc—Doctor?” Madison stuttered.

“Get her ready,” Dr. Morrigan said through clenched teeth, then walked through the door, leaving the nurses alone in a small room with a mother who felt no pain during birth and a baby who didn’t have an umbilical cord.

Elizabeth coughed before speaking. “May I?” she asked, stepping to the side of the birthing bed and holding out hands snapped inside latex gloves.

What the hell is this? shot through her head. The room felt different from any delivery room Elizabeth had ever been in—including her own. It should stink. Body odor, urine, feces, the sweet stench of amniotic fluid, but the room smelled of, smelled of—

What?

A childhood memory from growing up on a farm crept into her thoughts. Corn. The smell of the birthing room was like a cornfield.

Jacob’s head turned from his mother’s breast, the pink nipple popping from his mouth. His eyes found Elizabeth’s; they weren’t blue like most of the newborns she’d welcomed to the outside world. These were black pools of iris in the stark white of clean sclera. Her hand caught the bedrail to keep her from spilling onto the floor. The eyes. Dear God, the eyes. Those eyes knew something.

“I guess I could use a nap,” Marguerite said. “Or maybe dinner and some TV. The thought of raising a kid is exhausting.” She looked at Elizabeth, the woman’s simple grin seemingly alien to her. “You know what I mean?”

The room swam.

“Oooh,” shot from Elizabeth as she dropped to the floor. Her elbow cracked the bed frame as she fell, collapsing in a ball. Pain shot through her arm.

“Hey,” Marguerite said, turning toward the side of the bed and looking over; her swollen breast stuck between the bed and the rail. Milk dripped onto Elizabeth’s forehead.

Elizabeth turned and looked up at the woman who was still her patient. The baby in Marguerite’s arms smiled at her. It smiled. The fucking baby smiled.

“Are you okay?” Marguerite asked.

Elizabeth nodded, her head uncomfortably slow. It hurt.

“Yes,” she said, wiping breast milk from her face. “I just slipped, that’s all.”

She inhaled through the nose and exhaled through the mouth, like she was supposed to teach mothers during childbirth, mothers who weren’t Marguerite Jenkins.

“Madison,” Elizabeth said from the floor. The young nurse unfroze and hurried toward her; there was panic in her face. “Please take Jacob and do his readings, then bathe him and get him a bed in the nursery.”

A flash of shock crossed her face. “But—”

“Do it!” Elizabeth barked.

Madison glared down at her but turned toward the bed and took Jacob from his mother. The young nurse’s arms shook—that didn’t escape Elizabeth. She rolled and pushed herself off the floor, stopping just a moment by Madison, who was weighing tiny Jake, with his adult eyes.

On the drive home, those eyes lingered in her rearview mirror, and she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

Fame is a dangerous game.

As her brother lies in a coma after a near-fatal car accident, twenty-two-year-old Grace Brighton climbs the Hollywood Sign to make a desperate wish for his recovery. She loses her footing and plummets to the ground below—only there is no impact. Instead, she finds herself the center of attention at a film studio . . . in 1953 Hollywood. Everyone believes she's Alice Montgomery, a rising star she bears an eerie resemblance to, who disappeared just days earlier.

Grace has no choice but to step into Alice's shoes. Meeting Alice’s entourage and noticing not everyone is happy that she is back, Grace begins to suspect that something terrible has happened to the young actress. Afraid Alice’s miraculous return has now made her a target, Grace must find out who wants to harm Alice to find her way back to her own time. When she discovers one of the missing starlet's deepest, darkest secrets, Grace finds herself in grave danger —she may die long before she’s even been born.

“[A] genre-bending time-travel tale that melds mystery and romance in glittering Old Hollywood . . . VERDICT: At once frothy and dark, this book will appeal to mystery and thriller fans who loved TV’s Quantum Leap, the “Outlander” series, or the works of Susanna Kearsley.” Library Journal

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310672 | $27.99 | Releases 6/25/2024

Jennifer Murgia has always preferred books with mystery. An author of six YA novels, including an award-winning title, her books have been published in the USA, Germany, Poland, Hungary, and the Netherlands. Jennifer is also a freelance editor and currently resides in Bel Air, MD.

JENNIFER MURGIA WHEN I WAS ALICE

Be careful what you wish for

WHEN I WAS ALICE

WHEN I WAS ALICE

JENNIFER MURGIA

WHEN

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Jennifer Murgia

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310672

Paperback ISBN 9780744310696

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310719

eBook ISBN 9780744310702

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310726

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by Alexandr Bakanov, DavidGoh, Pure Imagination

5 3 1 2 4

For my grandmother, the “real” Alice.

And for anyone who needed to fall before they could find themselves.

POLICE REPORT

September 9, 1953

Incident: Missing Person

Location: Hollywood, CA

Details: Alice Montgomery. Actress. Blonde. 5’4”.

Notes: Do not alert press

CHAPTER ONE

“RYAN?” I LAY MY HAND on the edge of the hospital bed, the cool sheet over my brother’s still body barely rumpled. The machine next to me beeps with steady persistence as clear liquid drips into a tube in his arm. I study him in silent expectation because today, more than ever, I need him to hear me—to give some sort of sign that it’s going to be all right. But Ryan remains still. I quietly watch my brother’s eyelids. Not a single twitch or tremor. No indication that he’s aware I am beside him.

My gaze drifts toward the two lumps that are his feet at the end of the bed. I wait for movement but there is none. “I know we planned this months ago. You helped me go over all the lines so I’d nail this, only . . .” My voice snags in my throat, which has suddenly gone dry with the truth: I am going to let him down.

This week my brother was supposed to start his final project at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film, and Television. He rented a space downtown to hold auditions for his senior thesis in his major,

Murgia

directing—a modernized version of Rebel without a Cause—his favorite movie of all time. When he told me he wanted me to try out for a lead role in his student film—Natalie Wood’s character—I pushed for a smaller part. But acting was never for me. In fact, the entire entertainment industry was never for me. It’s his thing.

Weighted down with guilt, I know this project is huge, even without the connection to his favorite film. It’s his chance to prove he wants to and can direct, therefore breaking into the competitive Hollywood film industry.

Except . . . last week, Ryan went to Lake Hollywood Park, tolerating the tourists, to stare up at the white letters of the Hollywood sign. He often goes there to daydream of one day defying the rules and climbing the infamous letter H—carving his name there after his first Hollywood success, signaling to eternity that indeed he is an integral part of the mystique he so adores.

On the way home, Ryan’s car spun out of control on Mulholland Highway, busting through the fencing on the other side of the road and down the embankment. An injured coyote was found lying in the middle of the road—apparently the cause of the accident.

That night Mom sat in this very chair next to him, her shoulders shaking with violent sobs. And when the doctors told us Ryan had slipped into a coma, Dad stood so straight, his face pained beyond belief, that he looked as if he were afraid to move. Every day since, we’ve been keeping a silent vigil, hoping and praying Ryan will wake up.

“You’re here early,” the morning-shift nurse interrupts as she enters the room, the pants of her navy blue scrubs swishing with each step. She smiles at me and proceeds to assess Ryan’s vitals, her quick fingers pressing the confusing buttons on the machine next to his bed.

“I just wanted to check on him,” I reply, watching as she loops another bag of IV fluid onto the hooked stand.

The nurse moves to the other side of the room and scribbles the next staff shift on the whiteboard, then gives me a thoughtful look. “He can hear you, you know. He may not be able to show it, but he’s in there.” She tilts her head, then gives me an encouraging smile before leaving me alone with my brother.

I stand and lean over the bed, gazing down at his inert form beneath the covers. The tiny cuts on his face have already scabbed over and the growth of a thin beard covers his chin. “I hope she’s right—that you can hear me.” The words are thick in my throat. “And that you know how much we love you and need you to wake up.” I squeeze his limp hand and pause, hoping the contact of our skin might trigger something—anything. “I really hope you forgive me,” I murmur as everything else I want to say coats my tongue with regret.

IT TAKES TWO loops around the block on Vine Street before I spot an empty space along the curb. The tiny office my brother rented, which is about the size of a storage closet, is still a block away on Yucca Street, and even though my audition time for the student film my brother is supposed to direct is in ten minutes, I can’t bring myself to get out of the car.

I should have gone right home after leaving the hospital, but my guilt set me on autopilot, as if I’d find the courage to go through with the audition—to do this one thing for my brother. But as soon as I turn off the engine, it’s as if I’m paralyzed.

There’s a tug of war inside me. I’ve reasoned with myself that he’ll understand why I can’t do it—not while he’s in the hospital, not while my parents and I are scared to death he isn’t going to wake up—that bailing on something so important to him doesn’t mean I’m giving up hope. Hope that he’ll wake up. Hope that his student

Jennifer Murgia

film gets made. Hope that he’ll graduate. Hope that life will go on as planned, the accident but a little bump in the road.

Even at the library, where I sit at the circulation desk all day and shelve carts of books, Ryan’s accident follows me like a shadow. I’ve overheard patrons between the stacks, people from our neighborhood, kids my brother and I went to school with, ask, “Is Ryan Brighton still in the hospital?”

The conversations are always muffled, yet I zero in on every mention of accident, car wreck, and coma. Their words like knives stab my heart, little by little.

Now, a mere block away from what is supposed to be my brother’s future, my brain conjures black tire marks on the road and glass scattered by the bushes. An image of Ryan’s too-still body flashes inside my head. He should be here, waiting for me to show up to claim my role in his film, not hooked up to machines, clinging to life. And I should have stayed at the hospital, talking to him like the nurse suggested, encouraging him to wake up.

As if knowing my car is parked in the shadow of the Capitol Records building, my phone pings with a text from my best friend, Beth, who’s landed a job there answering phones in one of the of fices.

Just wanted to say good luck!

I tuck my chin to my chest and will my heart rate to slow to a normal pace. Only it’s not my heart I worry about. I haven’t even opened my mouth, but I feel the familiar seizing of my throat. A tightness telling me my vocal cords are gearing up to get stuck on repeat. I had thought my childhood impediment was gone, but it started again when my parents told me Ryan had been airlifted to the hospital.

Changed my mind, I text back. I’m a terrible person. Now listen to me, Grace Brighton. You’re not terrible. If it’s not what you want, then don’t do it. Ryan will understand.

My thumbs hover over my screen, but Beth already knows my reasons—the ones that are warring inside me.

That even though I should help my brother, I’m tired of being Ryan’s shadow. Tired of being compared to him. Tired of trying to be what he wants me to be.

That I’ve chosen to defend my job at the library and not go to college. Tired of living at home when all I want is my own place. Beth and I have talked about renting an apartment together, but I don’t have enough money. My high-school graduation was at the onset of the pandemic, causing me to lose two years of deciding what I wanted—hence, my reason for still being so dependent on my parents.

I’m already late, I text back. I’m sure someone better for the role will get it.

I check the time on my phone. In all honesty, I can haul myself down the street and make it. But the longer I look at the screen, each passing second tells me I’m blowing my chance—perhaps even blowing Ryan’s future.

All those weeks of practicing—of getting excited at the smile on his face each time he whipped out a new script for me to practice. Gone. Maybe he’ll understand once he wakes up; maybe he won’t hate me when I tell him this is something I could only do with him there. If he can’t watch me, I can’t—won’t—perform.

I take a deep breath and type back, Text you later. Heading home. It takes a few minutes for the dots to appear on my screen that mean she’s texting back.

Next time you’re at the hospital, tell Ryan I’m praying he pulls through.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start my car, wondering what I can possibly do to make this up to him.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SIGHT OF MY PARENTS’ cars in the driveway wrenches my stomach. Every free moment they have is spent at the hospital, while I join them after work and in the evenings, so it’s no wonder seeing their cars parked side by side, and knowing they are both inside the house, causes my heart to thud faster. I ease my Subaru between the recycling cans against the curb and take a deep breath. They’ve likely learned I skipped the audition, and their disappointment will bombard me as soon as I open the door.

Or it could be what I’ve dreaded most these last few days.

The instant I let myself in the front door the back of my neck grows slick and clammy. A terrible feeling crawls over my skin, and just as I am about to brace myself for the worst, my mom pokes her head out from around the corner of the kitchen. She holds a finger to her mouth and nods toward the living room, where my dad sleeps on the couch. I realize now that if something had happened, my parents would be at the hospital, not home. But since they are, the

house is too quiet—there are no sounds of crying and anguish. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with guilt over not staying by Ryan’s side instead of sitting in my car on Vine, going over all the reasons why I didn’t want to audition for his student film.

“Your dad and I came home to get a little rest, but I’m heading over to the hospital shortly. I was just getting a few things to take with me.”

“But Ryan . . . he’s . . . ”

“No change yet, sweetie.” My mother looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Her eyes are puffy beneath her makeup, and she’s hastily twisted her hair into a messy ponytail.

“I’ll come with you, just give me a sec.”

Mom touches my arm and gives it a soft rub. “I’ll take this one. You get some rest.” She looks over at my father. “I don’t want you to worry more than you already are right now. The doctors told us Ryan’s vitals are stable. We just need to wait and see what happens.”

I nod, but her words don’t convince me.

She shuffles softly back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hall, not asking about the audition, sparing me an explanation. Before my brother’s accident, my mother was on top of everyone’s schedule, but these days home feels like an alien planet. Dad sleeps more than usual, stressed from his busy work schedule he’s tried to fit around the hospital’s visiting hours, and my mom spends more time by Ryan’s bedside than at home—which is how it should be.

But I miss the weekends when we’d all be home together—the smell of popcorn lingering in the air after dinner and the soft strains of vintage music seeping beneath Ryan’s door when he would spend weekend nights at home. I’d give anything to hear my family’s noises filling one end of the house to the other in our ranch house in Beachwood Canyon—a home my parents could barely afford in the nineties after they got married, until my dad landed a job with a pharmaceutical company, working his way up to executive.

At the end of the hall, Ryan’s bedroom door stands open across from mine, the room as quiet as a tomb.

I take a deep breath and slip inside.

The silence is stifling.

I used to drown out the sound of Ryan shuffling around, reciting lines, listening to music, shouting into his PlayStation headset. Now it’s as if his room is waiting for his return like the rest of us. His bed is made the way my mom does it, not Ryan’s messy excuse of pulling the comforter up over his tangled sheets. His things are untouched yet clean, as if newly dusted—another “unlike Ryan” observation, since my brother thrives in his organized mess.

My eye catches the worn leather jacket hanging over the back of his gaming chair. God, he loves this jacket so much—a replica of one James Dean wore. My mom brought it home from the hospital along with the rest of Ryan’s things and painstakingly pulled the glass shards from the sleeve. I place my hand on the supple leather, my fingertips tracing over the jagged rip in the shoulder. The smell of his cologne rises from the collar, causing my breath to hitch in my throat as I realize my brother is the same age as James Dean was when he died.

The microwave beeps down the hall, alerting me that Mom is making another frozen dinner. My stomach rumbles but I ignore it as I stare at the Rebel without a Cause movie poster hanging on the wall above his bed. Even if Ryan wakes up within the next few days it will be a while before he’s allowed to come home.

I’ve never heard of anyone waking from a coma and bouncing back into their life, but I pray with everything I have that Ryan will. Even if he’s angry with me for not auditioning today. For jeopardizing his student film, his calling card for getting his foot in the door in Hollywood.

With a heavy heart, I run my finger over the papers scattered across Ryan’s desk, touching his future and past as they lie together

in a heap. His class schedule sits on top of old play scripts he’s never wanted to throw away, insisting I use them to practice my meager acting skills.

Mom is still puttering around the kitchen, allowing me to steal a moment to slide open the drawer of my brother’s desk. My breath rushes out of me at the sight of Ryan’s phone lying there. The screen is splintered and cracked, and the side of its case is dented. It’s gut-wrenching proof of the severity of his accident—the awful reminder that my brother is just as broken and battered, fighting for his life behind the stillness of his eyelids and the silence of our prayers.

Gingerly, I pick up the phone and cradle it in my hands. If Ryan can’t be here right now, then this is the closest I can be to him; a glimpse of his life before the accident to manifest that he’ll make it.

My finger presses the home button. If the battery hasn’t died, then surely the wreck damaged its inner mechanics; but to my amazement, the screen sputters then illuminates as if it’s just fine.

I open his camera roll and scroll, and my eyes unexpectedly fill with tears. I’m reminded that Ryan’s the smart kid. The Brightons’ shining star.

He always has been, while I’m a disappointment.

Ambushed by emotion, I hover my thumb over the screen, ready to swipe away my brother’s pre-summer memories when I catch a glimpse of something I’ve never seen before. There are a couple of screenshots of Old Hollywood photos—much like the ones my brother found at the flea market at the beginning of summer.

A photo of James Dean stares up at me, his blond hair catching the sunlight and his arm draped around a woman’s shoulders. She looks oddly familiar. I enlarge it with my fingers as tiny goosebumps spread over my arms. The young woman in the photo looks like . . . me. A fifties version of me. The same hair color, the same

cheekbones, the same eyes. Along the lower portion of the image is a caption that appears to be handwritten in faded pencil: 1953. Hollywood. James Dean and Al . . . The rest of the name is too faded to read, as if someone’s thumb rubbed over it long ago.

I stare at it, puzzled. Ryan had to have noticed the woman’s resemblance to me, but then why hadn’t he shown it to me?

“I’ll be back later,” Mom whisper-calls from the hallway, the aroma of lasagna creeping closer.

My brain is still trying to figure out what I’m looking at as I hear the front door open and then close. It’s most likely a coincidence that maybe Ryan never noticed; his obsession with James Dean so huge that he mentally cropped out the woman next to him. She’s probably not even an actress—just a fan who was lucky enough to have her photo taken with him.

But the more I study it, something about it feels off—something I can’t quite put my finger on. In its background is a familiar steel beam and the edge of a white, metal structure. The Hollywood sign. I’d recognize it anywhere.

That’s when I notice the sparkle on the woman’s wrist. Goose bumps travel from my arms to the back of my neck. I hurry across the hall and into my room, opening my closet for a box of junk I’ve kept since childhood, and root through it until my fingers touch the bottom. Buried beneath trinkets and knickknacks I haven’t touched in years is the bracelet my mom gave me when I was little. I pull it free and hold it up to the photo.

I shake my head. This is impossible.

A bracelet with two charms hangs from the young woman’s wrist in Ryan’s photo. A race car and a ladybug. I pick through the charms on my bracelet: a four-leaf clover, a silver cat . . . nearly a dozen, all crammed together in a jingly collection—and attached to the links nearest the clasp are a race car and a ladybug.

Just like the bracelet the woman in the picture is wearing.

MY FATHER’S GENTLE snores waft from the living room even though Mom went to bed hours ago after arriving home. I step down the hall and let myself out the kitchen door to the hum of cicadas in the nearby trees and make my way along the side of the house to the front. The street is empty and quiet—it’s just past eleven, an hour when most of my neighbors are inside winding down for the rest of the night.

Dressed in black leggings and a hoodie, I feel every bit a criminal for what I’m about to do. I tug my hood over my head as I begin the brisk walk toward the end of my street—to the dead end where the metal gate guards the precarious ascent toward the mountaintop. Clouds thicken overhead and a flash of heat lightning in the distance brightens the sky in shades of a fresh bruise. A rumble of thunder bellows but it doesn’t slow me down.

Just ahead is the door in white stucco—a pedestrian entrance to the packed dirt trail. It looks like an invitation in a fairy tale, even though I know what lies beyond may not have a happily ever after. My chances of getting caught are extremely high, if not by the officers sitting in the cruiser at the mouth of the trail, then surely by the infrared cameras dotting the incline of Mount Lee.

I hang back a little, my entire body like a loose wire as I contemplate turning around. There is another flash of lightning, this time closer and not set so high in the clouds. I’m close enough to hear the scanner through the open window of the cruiser; something about “All units proceed to . . .” and then a garbled address and a crack of thunder so loud it rattles my bones. The officers grumble in annoyance, due to the radio or the storm, I don’t know, but they start their engine and leave their post.

A flash of lighting streaks above the houses, followed by another loud boom—this one closer, as if hovering over the intersection

of Deronda and Mulholland—and all at once the streetlights blink out and the nearby houses go dark.

I can’t believe my luck.

Moments later, the beam of a flashlight zigzags down the hillside, and a ranger emerges from the pedestrian door, locking it behind him. He makes his way to a blue car across from me and starts it. I linger beside the wall lining the street, crouched low near the wheel of a parked car, murmuring to myself that I’m the biggest idiot for thinking this will work.

But it does.

The car k-turns, nearly catching me in the glow of its headlights in the cramped space the street allows, and drives off. The moment the taillights are gone I sprint for the gate, ignoring the posted signs that the park is closed, that there are cameras—that I should leave. If the storm continues, I tell myself, the power might be out long enough for what I’m about to do.

It’s dawning on me how stupid this really is. Stupid. Dangerous. Illegal. If Ryan knew, he’d tell me that I have a death wish. But after today . . . what I did—or didn’t do—feels like a mistake I need to make right.

Hesitantly, I touch the metal gate, my heart in my throat as I wait for something to happen. Nothing does. I even dare a peek at the small camera near the door, but the red light indicating it’s on is completely black. And then I do it. I climb over the metal gate and sprint, keeping to the left side of the trail, avoiding the long erosion crack in the packed dirt so I won’t twist an ankle. Several times I nearly trip and fall into the sagebrush and thorns that bank the path, but the fear of encountering a rattlesnake pushes me on, away from the vegetational edge.

I’ve hiked here many times with my parents and Ryan, but never alone. Never past park hours. Tonight I keep a steady pace, knowing if I think too long about the consequences, my fear will slow me

down. Another flash of lightning, and the radio tower is illuminated in the distance. I just need to get to the sign—those white letters urging me to forget I shouldn’t be here. That I’m supposed to be the good daughter, the good sister, not some whining child who thinks independence begins with a criminal record.

The dirt trail morphs into a haphazardly paved road and my heart beats wildly as I near the ranger station. The small booth is dark, empty, but I still can’t slow my heart. Not until I reach the iconic letters stretching like giants across the dark mountainside, spelling out H – O – L – L – Y – W – O – O – D.

Just before the bend in the road leading toward the central communications facility at the summit, I spy a large boulder against the fence, granting me entrance to the wild brush beneath the sign. I go for it. My legs burn with the effort to scale the terrain, my skin scraped and stinging from the tangled brush. At times the hill is so steep I have to lean over my knees to propel myself upward, but it’s to my advantage. If the power comes back on, if a helicopter flies overhead, they won’t be able to get me until I crest the top.

Only I’m not going to the top.

I set my sights on the white H in front of me and trudge on. It stands high and beautiful, encouraging me to reach its base where it’s anchored into the earth, even as the storm grows closer, lighting up the sky within the clouds above.

Finally, I reach it. My lungs burn for air and sweat coats my skin beneath my sweatshirt. I’m itching from the shrubs, and I’m scared . . . so scared. But there is no helicopter flying overhead telling me to leave. The cameras hidden on the letters are dark. No one is watching. It’s just me and the Hollywood sign, as if the universe has granted me access to this elusive part of the mountain to make amends for what I failed to do today.

This is what Ryan always wanted—to come here and make his mark. But I’m not Ryan. I’m here for something else. If the universe

Murgia

is on my side tonight, then I’m placing my trust in the powers that be to hear what I have to say.

My heart is heavy as I stand at the base of the H, and all at once, my emotions crash down on me. My body trembles, unleashing all the tears I’ve been holding inside.

“Please, whoever is listening, please let my brother be all right,” I choke out. “Please let him wake up. I promise I’ll . . .” But what promise can I make that’s big enough? To be a better sister? One who isn’t resentful of living in his shadow all the time. One who’s brave enough to be different from my perfect brother—and the expectations of our parents. That doesn’t seem good enough, and now that I’m here, I don’t know what to promise. What to trade for the biggest wish I could ever make.

I swipe my tears from my cheeks and look up at the letter H—this white, gleaming talisman my brother looks to for bigger and brighter things to come—a career that will allow him to live his dream. To him this letter is a beacon of hope, that whatever he wants from life can be his. Even after a horrific accident. Even after cheating death because I know . . . I know . . . he’s going to make it.

And then something comes over me—a need so fierce to make a wish and really, truly believe in it as he does.

My feet move as if by a gravitational pull toward the maintenance ladder hanging along the side of the H. Only it’s too high. It hovers about five feet off the ground, so to reach it, I jump and grab onto the first horizontal bar attached to the back of the letter and pull myself up.

Making it to the second bar is just as tricky, but I do it and then inch myself to the end where the bar meets the bottom of the ladder, hoisting myself onto the bottom rung. I focus on the motion of my hands reaching and pulling until I am feet above the ground. Arm over arm, rung after rung, I climb, my eyes scanning the back of the sign and the letter O next to me for the little red light of the camera

to suddenly blink on. But it’s dark, and it’s only me and the sign and the stormy sky overhead.

I inch my way toward the very top of the H, carefully and slowly in the dark. When the ladder ends in open air, I draw in a tremendous breath and gaze down the mountainside at the city toward the sweeping hills of Hollywood, the reservoir glistening in the dark, and far across the flatter landscape at the rising skyscrapers of downtown LA. I know in my heart that this is the perfect place for my wish to take flight—as close to the stars as possible.

“Please, please don’t let my brother die,” I beg. “He’s a good person and doesn’t deserve this. Please give him that bright future he wants . . . just please . . . let him wake up, let him have that chance.”

It doesn’t feel like enough, even though the ache of the wish weighs heavily within my bones. I’m scared that my actions today will sabotage him.

If only I could go back and make things right . . .

I will my words to hold importance, imagining them floating high above me toward someone, something, that might have the power to make them come true.

If only Ryan were here right now, gazing out at the city below. He would love this, and I vow to myself that I’ll bring him here—that I’ll tempt fate again to climb this sign with him. Because I know—I just know—that everything has lined up just right for me to be here, to make this wish for him.

I hold on to the thought for another moment, but I am cold and alone at the top of the gargantuan letter. The ground yawns dark and wide below. Stay calm, I tell myself. Just concentrate on making it back down to the ground. But climbing down seems an impossible feat, let alone getting down the mountain without alerting the police.

A flash of lightning blazes across the sky, even closer now that I’m almost fifty feet above the ground, hanging on to a sheet of metal

in the middle of a thunder-and-lightning storm. Oh God, this was stupid. Forget about being arrested—I’ll be dead if I don’t climb back down.

Thunder follows, deep and menacing, and shakes me enough that my foot slips, leaving my legs to pedal wildly in the air as my hands grasp the top of the H. My phone slides from the pocket of my hoodie, pinging loudly against the back of the sign before being swallowed by the darkness below.

Lightning again—this time striking the radio tower behind me. Angry sparks rain toward the ground, caught in a sudden gust of wind and the onset of pelting raindrops. And then I hear it: the rumble of a car between the rolls of thunder and the thuds of my terrified pulse in my ears. Flashing red and blue lights climb the trail to my left, up Mount Lee, closer and closer.

My gaze shifts to the camera on the letter O. The light on the camera is red. No no no . . .

I have to get down. But the next crack of lightning catches me off guard, causing me to lean over the top rim of the H at a frightening angle. And then the rain comes. The deluge causes my grip to lose its hold. My feet lose purchase on the slick ladder beneath me, dangling. The pull is too strong, heaving me over the edge and into the cold, open air . . . and just as another flash of searing lightning grazes the sky, I lose my grip altogether. I plummet past the framework of the sign—falling . . . falling . . .

Available now, wherever books are sold.

FAME IS A DANGEROUS GAME

AS HER BROTHER LIES IN A COMA after a near-fatal car accident, twenty-twoyear-old Grace Brighton climbs the Hollywood Sign to make a desperate wish for his recovery. She loses her footing and plummets to the ground below— only there is no impact. Instead, she finds herself the center of attention at a film studio . . . in 1953 Hollywood. Everyone believes she’s Alice Montgomery, a rising star she bears an eerie resemblance to, who disappeared just days earlier. Grace has no choice but to step into Alice’s shoes. Meeting Alice’s entourage and noticing not everyone is happy that she is back, Grace begins to suspect that something terrible has happened to the young actress. Afraid Alice’s miraculous return has now made her a target, Grace must find out who wants to harm Alice to find her way back to her own time. When she discovers one of the missing starlet’s deepest, darkest secrets, Grace finds herself in grave danger—she may die long before she’s even been born.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Cover Artwork: Enjoynz, Rysak, Unizyne

This story only ever has one ending.

When Everly Tertium encounters a strange man in the park claiming to be her grandfather, she is invited to visit a mysterious apartment building. There, she finds herself in a constant state of déjà vu, impossibly certain that she’s already lived through these moments, already been introduced to these people, and already visited all of these rooms and floors. So why does she have no idea what’s happening to her?

The longer she stays in the building, the more Everly becomes convinced there is more going on than meets the eye. Something is off, time seems to pass differently, and the people living there seem trapped. Slowly, Everly begins to wonder if she is trapped too. But would she even want to leave, if she could?

“The Building That Wasn’t is many things: a fable about belonging and curiosity, an exploration of an endlessly fascinating building, and a twisty sci-fi debut that leads readers through ever more mysterious doorways.” —Sara Flannery Murphy, author of Girl One and The Wonder State

Hardcover ISBN 9780744309850 | $28.99 | Releases 7/16/2024

Abigail Miles decided to dedicate her life to stories from a young age, leading first to majoring in creative writing in college and now to spending far too much of her time attached to her computer, composing stories and books. Abigail currently lives in Boston, where all her time (or very nearly all her time) is spent in some combination of writing books, reading books, and making tea to drink while writing and/or reading said books. Sometimes she does actual work, too. The Building That Wasn’t is her first novel.

THE BUILDING THAT WASN’T ABIGAIL MILES

THE BUILDING THAT WASN’T

ABIGAIL MILES

THE BUILDING THAT WASN’T

THE BUILDING THAT WASN’T

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Abigail Miles

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744309850

Paperback ISBN 9780744309874

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744309911

eBook ISBN 9780744309898

Audiobook ISBN 9780744309959

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by George Peters, Natrot, Supermimicry

5 3 1 2 4

1The room was white—almost blindingly so, with surfaces that had been scrubbed to a shine, so that by staring at the floor or a wall it was nearly possible to see one’s own reflection. It was clean and fresh and sterile. The perfect canvas.

The most beautiful aspect of the white room was how stark contrasting shapes and colors appeared on the initial blankness. This was an aesthetic quality that the man found particularly pleasing to explore, and so he did as such extensively, to a near-compulsive rate. He fancied himself an artist, with the borders of the room providing the ideal location to bring his masterpiece to life.

Keeping that in mind and aiming for the truest form of artistic perfection he could conjure, the man gripped the tool in his hand—his paintbrush of choice—and hefted it before him. His arm dropped in an almost graceful fashion as he completed a full swoop, similar in form to that of a baseball player setting up to bat. Then, pausing once to allow the moment to settle in its resplendent glory, the man slowly lowered his arm, tool in hand, and looked around at what he had created.

The white backdrop truly was perfect, he thought. It made the red look so much fresher—sharper and more potent. And the shapes the droplets

formed,thepatterntheyenactedacrosstheroom.Perfect.Themanadmired the final product and couldn’t help but think that this may have been some of his finest work yet.

Not to mention the added pleasure derived from the screaming. While some find the sound of a human scream to be unpleasant, the man found it to be more precious than music—a chorus of varying pitches and volumes coming together in a resounding crescendo at the final moment. He would do it all for that, for the symphony that was forged as a result of the fear, the excitement. The pain.

That’s why he was there, after all. To create such a stupendous pain in the people they supplied.

Well, that was not technically true. Technically he was there for many, many more reasons. Glorified kidnapper being one, rubber duck watcher another.

But the pain. That was his favorite. Though usually the pain was accompanied by a distinct factor of more the unraveling of the universe and all that.

Not this time. This was only an ordinary body, with no spark of the otherworldly in sight.

The man didn’t care.

Maybe others would, but he found purpose enough for himself in the beauty of what he could fashion there, with or without the ulterior motive. In some ways, one could say that having a secondary reason for the pain only tarnished it, whereas this belonged solely to him. This moment, right here.

The man took a deep breath, savoring the complete ambiance of the spacehewasin,beforeheturnedbacktohissubjectandassessedhisoptions. Settling on a different, more precise tool—one with a much sharper edge— the man once more lifted his arm and continued with his ordained task.

From a different room, a set of eyes casually observed on a screen as the man set to work on his masterpiece, nodding once in approval before turningaway.Thescreenleftondisplayedthewhitewalls,nolongerpristine, which echoed back the horrendous chorus the man’s work produced.

2There was an elderly man Everly had never seen before standing behind all the black-clad patrons, and his eyes had been focused on her for the duration of the service.

She blinked and realized that wasn’t quite right. There was an elderly man Everly recognized, as if from a dream, as if from a memory, lodged deep and low down in the recesses of her brain. She squinted at him, because if she could just . . .

She blinked again, and of course she knew him, why wouldn’t she know him, why would she ever not recognize—

Blink. Everly shook her head. The man was still there, and she didn’t know why a second before she had recognized him, because she did not, though she felt oddly unsettled by the memory of recognizing the man. Not as unsettled as she was, however, by his mere presence or by the fact of his staring at her.

He was too far away for her to actually see his eyes, to know for sure, but she could feel his attention pierced on her like a dagger through her spleen. The sensation was disconcerting, but in a strange way she appreciated the man and the mystery he presented. It gave her something to focus on. Something to puzzle over.

Someone to look at other than the form in the coffin on the elevated platform in front of her.

The man wore a bowler hat over his tufted gray hair, and a brown tweed coat, which worked even further to set him apart from the sea of faces that encircled him—the rest of whom were all adorned in shades of black or blackish blue, all at least a little familiar to Everly. The friends, thecoworkers,the distant acquaintances and associates.

But not the family. There was no other family. None but her. The preacher had finished speaking, Everly realized with a start, and was gesturing for her to step forward. She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to pondering the mystery of the peculiar man in the bowler hat, trying to work out how he had found his way there, and why, but they were all staring at her, so she stood, refusing to breathe as she crossed the distance between her chair and the platform ahead of her. A sharp pang flashed through her skull when she reached the front. Everly grit her teeth, resisting the urge to lift a hand to the side of her temple.

She couldn’t look at the body. They had asked if she wanted to beforehand, to make sure he looked okay—like himself, she supposed—but she knewitwouldbenouse.Hewouldneverlooklikehimself.Neveragain.

A car accident had led her here, to this raised platform, in front of all the vaguelyfamiliarformsinblackandthesolitarystrangeoneinbrown.Orat least, that is what they had told her, when it was already too late for the cause to evenmatter.

But according to them, it had been a car accident, and so he hadn’t been quite right. Or his body hadn’t been. They told her it would be okay if she didn’t want an open coffin, but she wasn’t able to stand the thought of locking himupinthereanysoonerthansheneededto.

Soeventhoughsherefusednowtolook,shekepthimoutintheopen.She kepthimfree.

Afterward,Everlywasusheredtoadimlylitreceptionroom,whereshehad scarcely a moment to herself before the other mourners came flooding in to report how very sorry they were, how devastating of a loss it must

be, how much she would be kept in their prayers. Everly hardly heard any of them. She leaned against one of the whitewashed walls of the hall and rubbed her temple, trying not to close her eyes, though she wanted nothing more than to shut out everything and everyone around her. She wanted them all to go back, to their lives and their families and their homes. She wanted to go back.

But back to what, she couldn’t help but ask herself. Back to the empty house with too many rooms and the life that she wasn’t sure she could picture any longer in his absence.

Her father’s absence.

She was too young, all of Everly’s neighbors had tried to claim. Too young to be all alone. But at twenty-four, she was hardly a child anymore, and really, what would anyone have done anyway? Where would she have gone?

She had nowhere else to go, no one else to go to, and they knew it as well as she did.

She was on her own.

Everly considered leaving. She thought better of it a moment later, looking around at all the people who had come out to celebrate her father’s life, but an instant after that she realized she didn’t even care. None of them had truly known him anyhow. They had only come for the cake, which was nowsetoutonaplasticfoldingtablebythedoor,thewordsOur MostSincereCondolencestracedoutinpoorlyscriptedblackicingacrossthe centerofthebuttercream sheet. They probably wouldn’t even notice if she left, Everly thought, and even if they did, she could see no reason why she should care. No reason at all.

Everly stood up from the wall to leave, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible as she walked between the well-wishers, making her way toward the doors of the reception hall.

As she stepped out into the deepening evening air just beyond the doors, she caught sight of a blur of brown fabric far ahead of her. Straining hereyesagainsttheduskthatwasswiftlydescending,Everlycouldjustmake

out the shape of the strange man from before—the one she remembered and knew yet was certain she had never met—as he strode off into the night, the shadow of his curved bowler hat protruding distinctly above his head as he left without so much as an insincere commiseration offered her way.

3It was his own fault, and he knew it. Luca shouldn’t have told Jamie that he’d take on the second shift, but he hadn’t been able to resist. It had felt like the right decision at the time, and like all the worst decisions, it was only through the harsh lens of retrospect that he could see how little he had thought this through. After nearly a full twenty-four hours in front of the screens set up around the cramped surveillance room, Luca’s eyes had more than glazed over, and he was becoming afraid they’d get stuck that way if he stayed in there much longer: frozen in a state of half-awareness.

Struggling—failing—to suppress a yawn, Luca leaned back in his chair and ran his eyes over the screens again, searching for anything he might have missed the past thousand times he had scanned the camera feeds. It was proving to be an unusually dull shift—doubly so, for the added hours of monotony. Despite the long hours and unending boredom, it was almost worth it for the chance to be alone, if only for a little while.

To be the eyes instead of the watched.

(As far as he was aware, at least.)

And to use his eyes for his own purposes. If only he could stay awake to use them. Luca could feel himself fading, and every few seconds he had to jerk his head up to prevent himself from

collapsingfromexhaustion.Ifonlysomethinginterestingwouldhappen,he thought. Something to wake him up.

Unbidden, his mind began to drift, in a half-conscious state, to the dreams that haunted him during the night—not the only reason, but certainly one of the reasons that had driven him to make the illguided decision to stay awake through the night in front of those awful screens.

Though, perhaps haunt wasn’t the right word. Haunting implied ghosts from a past lived through and regretted. If anything, Luca’s dreams hinted at something that hadn’t yet come to pass, if he was feeling highminded enough to label himself as being prophetic.

And really, would he have been that far off?

He was never able to place a finger on what it was about his nighttime visions that unsettled him so, but more often than not, Luca would jerk awake during the night, drenched in sweat and with fleeting images filling his head, then vanishing moments later. He didn’t ever retain much from them—mostly just a feeling of dread—but occasionally he would find something tangible to hang on to, something that he thought he could remember, if only for that brief instant.

Sometimeshesawher.Shewasalwaysdifferent:sometimesachild,with strawberry-blond pigtails and a lopsided grin; sometimes older, with a sharp chin and mouth perpetually turned down on the ends; most of the time she was a young woman in her twenties, around his age—fierce, tall, defiant.

Always she burned.

Lastnightshehadreturned,theauburnhairafieryhaloencirclingherhead, her eyes burnished with their own kind of flame as they met his in sleep— andinmemory.Butshealwaysleftfarmorequicklythanhewouldhaveliked, andinherabsenceLucawasalwaysmoreshakenthanhecouldreasonably account for. He didn’t think she was the cause of the fear that always gnawed at him after such dreams—though he could not have said why—but nonetheless, where she walked, so did the shivers that racked his body the next day, casting all his thoughts into a shadow of doubt and worry.

They were getting worse. When he was a kid, Luca would find himself awoken by a fiery nightmare once, maybe twice a year. They were always vague, already distant by the time he had shaken himself fully awake.

That changed years ago, for no clear reason that Luca could think of, but now they were arriving more and more frequently.

Most days now, he was afraid of closing his eyes for too long, afraid that that alone would be enough to hurtle him back into the dreams.

So, to avoid further encounters with the girl and her flaming hair and everything else that would inevitably follow, Luca had volunteered to stay on watch well into the night—long past when his normal shift would have ended. It gave him time to think, he had tried to tell himself. But really, by that point he would have attempted nearly anything to evade the dreams.

(A secret unbeknownst to Luca: he wasn’t the only one in that building to dream.)

Luca didn’t have a way to track the passing of time in the surveillance room (clocks in the building had an uncanny knack of being disobedient), but he knew that the night must have faded away when he heard the sharp beeping of the alarm that signaled the start of the morning. A few minutes later, the door behind him creaked open, and with the sound, Luca tensed, sitting up straight. Pretending he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Even though, for the moment at least, he wasn’t.

Taking in shallow breaths, Luca steeled himself, then turned his head, slumping immediately back in his seat when he saw that it wasn’t one of the building’s runners, but rather Caleb’s slim form stepping into the room.

Cast in the pale lights emanating from the wall of screens, Caleb Arya looked cold, in the way that he always seemed to lately. Racked with shivers from an invisible force Luca never felt himself, his friend held his arms tightly wrapped around himself even now. Adding to the ensemble that was Caleb were the permanent dark circles painted beneath his eyes, the clammy sheen to the skin of his forehead, the hitch in his breath every few seconds that was only audible if you were listening.

And Luca was listening.

“Long night?” Caleb asked, trying to arrange his features into a smile. He was always trying, for Luca.

As Caleb settled into the seat next to his, Luca tried to return the favor.

“Not too bad,” he managed, though he knew it couldn’t have sounded all that convincing. “Nothing interesting, if that’s what you mean.”

Caleb offered a mock sigh, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Shame. I know how much you value your midnight breakouts and breakdowns.”

Luca knew he was joking, but it still struck a chord in him. That was the other reason he took the night shift, though he hadn’t been as productive in that regard lately.

His illicit use of the surveillance room’s cameras was his most treasured secret. And his most dangerous one.

“Roll call?” Luca asked, without looking at Caleb.

“Five minutes.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be there soon. Need to wait for one of the blues to come in here and relieve me.”

Caleb sighed. “Don’t be too late this time. You know how the runners get when you aren’t in the lineup. You don’t want to anger them, Luca.”

“I know,” Luca said. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

Luca heard more than he saw Caleb get up and leave. Alone again, if only for a few minutes, Luca took one last opportunity to glance over the screens in front of him. His eye caught on activity in one of the uppermost screens, and he paused, watching.

“Sorry, Caleb,” Luca mumbled to himself. For a moment, his mind sliced to what the repercussions for not showing up to roll call could be— Caleb was right, he really couldn’t afford to anger the runners—but he steadied his resolve, bracing his fingers on the keyboard. “I’m going to be a few minutes late after all.”

Available now, wherever books are sold.

THIS STORY ONLY EVER HAS ONE ENDING.

When Everly Tertium encounters a strange man in the park claiming to be her grandfather, she is invited to visit a mysterious building. There, she finds herself in a constant state of déjà vu, impossibly certain that she’s already lived through these moments, already been introduced to these people, and already visited all of these rooms and floors. So why does she have no idea what’s happening to her?

The longer she stays in the building, the more Everly becomes convinced there is more going on than meets the eye. Something is off, time seems to pass differently, and the people living there seem trapped. Slowly, Everly begins to wonder if she is trapped too. But would she even want to leave, if she could?

THERE WAS ALWAYS THE PATTERN. AND IT NEEDED TO BE RESTORED.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel Cover Artwork: Mordolff

Café au lait, career epiphanies, and love triangles.

Just a typical day at your summer job. When recent business school grad and meticulous ten-year planner, Kat McLauren, takes an unplanned au pair position in the French Riviera to schmooze a future employer, she haphazardly upholds her reputation while rejuvenating a local tourism magazine, grappling with three unruly kids, and avoiding a romance with the host family's eldest son. But if a summer full of wellaged wine, sizzling flirtation, and a bit of betrayal can promise one thing, it’s that sometimes the best things in life are the ones we don’t plan for.

Paperback ISBN 9780744310320 | $16.99 | Releases 8/6/2024

Maia Correll is a native Rhode Islander and Bryant University graduate with degrees in International Business and Spanish. An avid cook, traveler, and yogi, she seeks adventure in all areas of life, including in her books. She strives to take her readers on a journey in every genre from romance to fantasy and anything in between. As an author and screenwriter, she's focused on empowering, inspiring, and entertaining primarily within the realms of contemporary sci-fi/ fantasy and commercial fiction for Middle Grade through Adult audiences. Dare to Au Pair is her first romance novel.

What if you’ve been chasing the wrong dream all along?

Dare to AuPair

Maia Correll a novel

Dare AutoPair

Maia Correll

Dare AutoPair

Dare AutoPair

Maia Correll

Maia Correll

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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2024 by

Maia Correll

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Paperback ISBN 9780744310320

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310351

eBook ISBN 9780744310344

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310375

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by CSA-Archive, Deepika Praveen, VoinSveta

5 3 1 2 4

To Jill. My best friend and soul sister. May our adventures continue to bring us joy, laughter, and divinely-timed lifelong lessons. www

Well, this is craptastic. Yes. Craptastic

How else do I describe chucking all my post-graduation eggs into a Dublin law firm’s marketing coordinator position? And spoiler alert, only to not get the job I’m way over-qualified for but desperately need to give my resume a distinguished glow-up to launch my career into corporate America’s high-flier travel industry.

What a world we live in. Where fully-packed resumes, sporting flying colors in academic achievement and esteemed summer internships still don’t carry enough va va voom. And rosy as my references may be, the cutthroat reality is that foreign work experience is a necessity to even get me to Continental Air’s doormat—better known as the company I’ve been LinkedIn-stalking since I was twelve.

I should’ve taken that Santander job when I studied a semester in Sevilla. In my defense, Spanish Culture 301 feat. Food and Film was a bit more enticing than donning the ever-alluring and wrinkle-prone bank teller button-up in the Iberian Peninsula. At the time, I’d figured I’d be a shoo-in for the next opportunity that came around—wrong. I guess being 20 percent Irish doesn’t mean much these days. How could my people do this to me!

Maia Correll

Still, if I’d chosen the latter option in Spain, I probably would’ve avoided this floundering situation: splayed out on my childhood bed, analyzing my overconfidence when it comes to job applications, while my bichpoo, Zelda, casts me a sleepy-eyed glance to signal it’s dinnertime. I stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars covering the ceiling, and it temporarily distracts from the hauntingly dichotomous belongings collecting along the room’s perimeter. Like the plastic bins that’ve gobbled my college dorm’s contents. One Direction cardboard cutouts from my middle school heydays. Frayed stuffed animals that I refuse to part ways with no matter how hard Mom tries to pry them from my hands.

And as much as I’d like to indulge in yet another evening of scouring the online job boards, blasting a ‘90s rom-com or Planet Earth documentary in the background to keep me sane, I’ve got to make myself presentable for this—sigh—date. Yes, the Kat McLauren is going on a date. It’s been twenty-two years, so better late than never, right?

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t on my mind all week. Like my brain had been marinating in a deliciously potent cocktail dishing up buzzing delight and cloying dread. Love that for me.

So, even though my back wants to glue itself to my third-grade butterfly sheets for eternity, come hell or New England beach traffic, I’m not gonna show up a sniveling mess. Besides, the ride there and back will give me ample time to course-correct this barely budding career of mine. That’s the secret to ten-year plans: failure is not an option, especially for this summa cum laude destined for a corner office with a view of the country’s most prestigious airline.

Showing up twenty minutes early for this devilishly normalized form of mate selection comes with its perks. Relaxing into a weather-worn bench on the lawn beside the town’s yacht club, I drink in the sight.

The shipyard is peaceful tonight. Melting into an electric orange horizon, the sun casts its last rays across a sailboat-studded cove. Twilight’s cool air blows off the Atlantic as the water’s gentle rippling hints of winds ensue beyond the herd of boats bobbing around Hyannis Port.

For a moment, my focus cascades into the evening’s serenity, capturing the scene in my memory—only mildly cursing for leaving my Canon at home.

Families, lovers, and friends stretch out on wooden decks, admiring the coral sky from their boats. How easy it must be for them to sink into their private bliss. I wish I could join them in their calm, diving in and rinsing off the worries of the world. Except my incessant foot tapping would have another thing to say about it.

Seriously, Kat.

I watch my foot bounce up and down, taking notice of my unpainted toes. Shit. Of all the footwear at my disposal, I had picked sandals. The one option that highlights my gloriously dull, unadorned toenails. Hopefully he doesn’t think unpainted toes are uncouth, gross, or lame.

He, being Conor, whose profile I stumbled across last week on the dating app I swore I’d never use. But after many lonely nights I don’t care to count, my friend Tiff not-so-subtly snatched my phone and downloaded it, insisting that it was my turn to finally “get some.”

His profile isn’t bad. I mean, he’s objectively attractive, yes. Dusty blond hair. Probably hits the gym six days a week after a morning protein shake and might even sprinkle a few CrossFit sessions in there too. Definitely a lifeguard.

And our obligatory prescreening text chat isn’t too mind-numbing. If discussing the newest fad to practice yoga while goats climb on our backs doesn’t scream sexy, I don’t know what does.

Really though, how else am I supposed to break the awkward tension when messaging a stranger who could turn out to be obsessive,

psychopathic, or worse . . . nice. It would be great if I had prior romantic experience to pull from. But I don’t. While everyone else my age was out having their sexual awakenings, I was burying myself in school and barely surmountable course loads. On the one hand, I’ve kept my clean-as-a-whistle academic record on its pedestal for all to see—Continental Air most especially. On the other, the art of the French kiss is vitally missing from my life’s report card.

I figured once I hit the first tailgate at UConn, shotgunned a Miller Lite, and wowed all the boys with some forced extroverted charm, it’d be smooth sailing from there. Yet, as much as I idolized the idea of lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets, I found myself watching from the sidelines too often to count. My roommates would make out with strangers at a New Haven nightclub or go skinny dipping without a second thought.

And there I was, propped up in bed preferring to watch Little Women or Sleepless in Seattle for the thirtieth time. In my defense, my choice was a tad more appealing than slugging vodka shots until 3 a.m. just for a guy drenched in cologne and back sweat to stick his slobbery tongue down my throat. And thus began the self-fulling prophecy for a dating dry spell.

Back to Conor. I wish I didn’t have to use a blurry picture of a guy from his first frat party to gauge my attraction toward him. Why can’t we have it like our parents did? Walk into a bar one night and find your mystery person hunched over a pool table. Better yet, what about the Jane Austen era? Walk downstairs and you oh-so-casually have company over to call on you. It’s always some bogus connection like a friend of a friend of a cousin’s old governess. Then, suddenly, the surrounding world collapses as your eyes meet theirs. From that moment on, whenever your paths cross, there’s a fire lit beneath you, a shortness in your breath—and no, it’s not the corset.

Wouldn’t that be nice. Sometimes I think Jane should be shelved in fantasy. There’s nothing general about that fiction.

Don’t get me wrong, my life goal isn’t marriage and triplets by twenty-three. But when you’ve still never even had a first kiss, you can only wonder if you’ll be a bachelorette for life. Seriously, why is it that I can deliver the keynote at my graduation ceremony without a whisper of nerves, but the second I have to interact with the opposite sex, I’m a fumbling mess who doesn’t know left from right? It’s like all my intelligence, wit, and charm—if I have any—gets vacuumed from my body.

I flick up my phone. 7:37.

He was supposed to be here seven minutes ago. By now, the sun has almost fully sunk into the horizon, and the briny breeze reeking of low tide wanders to places where my chiffon dress isn’t thick enough to block out the chilling air. Late May in Massachusetts really only brings warmth between the hours of ten and two.

I shift on the bench, nearly splintering the back of my bare thigh. Finally, my phone dings. I whip it up, my disappointment fleeing as quickly as I read his text.

Hey. So sorry to do this, but do you think we can reschedule? I popped a tire this afternoon.

Thank the heavens. After the superficial niceties of making sure he was okay, I let the whole date slide right off my back. The way I see it, I showed up, I did my part. I’m hoping his version of “rescheduling” is the same as mine, i.e., say it to be polite but no hard feelings if we both just let it fizzle out.

My stomach howls, and now that I have my night back, I know exactly how I want to spend it: plowing through enchiladas from the best Mexican restaurant in the Northeast while watching copious amounts of Gilmore Girls on my laptop.

I bolt to my car after picking up my order and sputtering out a few shaky sentences in Spanish to the hostess. Sure, I may have gotten a biliterate stamp on my high school diploma and minored in the

language in college, but every time I have to use it, my brain likes to pretend it’s washed all the built-up knowledge down the drain.

As if on cue, Tiff calls on my drive home.

“Yes?” I say to the dashboard speaker.

“How did it go?”

I give her the details, scant as they are.

“Kat, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. I’ve got better plans.” The warm tortilla chips taunt me in the passenger seat. “Wait, that came out wrong. I’m sure he’s nice and all—”

“Why do you keep avoiding going out with someone?” Tiff blurts out.

Easy for her to say when she’s had guys fawning over her since the seventh grade when she invested in a push-up bra.

“I’m not avoiding it, I just have—”

“Other things to focus on?”

“Well, yeah.” I’m getting defensive now. She knows how important Continental Air is to me. I’ve been wanting to apply to their Young Soarers program since I first found out about it. It’s only been within my top three talking points for the last decade.

“I just want you to be happy,” she says.

“I don’t need a guy to be happy. I need the fruits of my frickin’ labor to start showing up.”

Tiff’s silence catches me off guard. I look at the dashboard illuminating my face. It’s the only light gracing my body, save for the stop lights and neon street signs shining through the windshield. Kind of weird to think that once the big lightbulb in the sky shuts off for the day, we’re humbled to our small but mighty presence. We’re left with ourselves and what we’ve created, good and bad.

Damn, I’m on a roll tonight.

But that’s the problem I keep running into: I’ve got the oneliners—loglines in the making—but nothing to tie them together. No

story. And I don’t have the time to try and figure it out, at least not right now. If I wanted to be a filmmaker, I wouldn’t have majored in Marketing, right? At the time, it seemed like the most creative of the “regular” degree paths. But, nonetheless, I’ll get to the entertainment industry eventually. Once I’ve got my platform, fulfilled my tenure in corporate America, and figured out what the heck I’d make in the first place.

It’s not for lack of trying. May I present the dozens of filmmaking competitions I’ve entered from second to seventh grade. Pardon my French, but screw the Massachusetts Junior Creatives board who said my work lacked “vigor, originality, and vulnerability.” We try not to think about that. Besides, I’m sure the eventual patrons of “An Ode to the Lobsterwoman” would have thought differently.

It’s the worst itch I’ve ever faced; a yearning to play in a different world but no clear entryway. I’m just a business school misfit with a pesky spark.

Nonetheless, I still have space for content brainstorming sessions on my calendar to keep my creative juices refreshed. I’ve had to move it around a few times, but it’s there. I’ll get to it.

But mark my words, Kat Nieve McLauren will be a filmmaker. She’ll direct. She’ll produce. She’ll write. She’ll run the gamut regardless of the genre she settles on. There’s no pigeonholing this phoenix even if she doesn’t know the route to her dreams . . . yet.

There’s a clatter coming through the speaker. “Tiff, you there?”

“Mm-hmm. Sorry, we’re cleaning up from dinner. Our au pair came today. She’s from France.” Tiff, being the oldest of five brothers and sisters, used to be the go-to babysitter when we were in high school and her two lawyer parents were tied up in court. When she and I went to UConn, her mom learned of an au pair program that hires anyone eighteen to twenty-eight from around the world and sticks them with a family to handle their kids.

“France,” I say, sighing. “Sounds nice.”

“How’s your practice Young Soarers application coming by the way?”

“Fine.” Of course I don’t really believe that, but like hell I’m gonna let Tiff know. We may be best friends but I don’t want her to hear me squirm. It’s bad enough she gets to live with her boyfriend in New York while they work at their cushy accounting firm. I don’t need to openly admit that I’m freaking out over previous years’ essay prompts that I’m only using as prep for when the real application drops this summer.

Let me explain.

The Young Soarers program has to be the most coveted, the most prestigious, the most determinant of future success that the travel industry has ever seen. Reinforcing its hard-to-reach reputation, Continental Air only opens the hallowed admissions gates to new applicants every six years. And it just so happens that this year—my graduation year—intersects with the next induction window.

To be a Young Soarer is to be among a revered class of finance whizzes, top-tier marketers, and eloquent public relations professionals. I’ve had my sights set on it since I was still losing baby teeth and making excel sheets outlining the most illustrious companies and their top-earning positions.

Now, as a fresh college graduate with a business degree hot off the overpriced textbooks, I will be among the fifteen Young Soarers selected, continuing en route to fulfill my vision board’s timeline. First: Complete the Young Soarers three-year rotational program with stints in Accounting, Marketing and PR, and Pricing. Second: Schmooze through the corporate matrix with my plan to serve a lengthy term as the airline’s International Content Editor—a.k.a. travel blogger, but with dental. I have to. It’s only meant to be, given that I’ve been manifesting it for over a decade. Ever since I watched my first episode of Globetrotter and started making Pinterest boards chock-full of sculpted architectural masterpieces and turquoise waters. If I can’t be a

full-time movie maker just yet, then I’ll gladly settle for a country-hopping journalist in the meantime. Ideally, if I could somehow pair my future filmmaking career with world travel, that would be the dream. But the dream has to wait. There’s no telling how many books on the law of attraction I’ve impulse bought after listening to the respective authors speak on podcasts. Okay, fine. Seven.

I don’t take such an intensive plan lightly. Oh no. I’m putting in the hours. I have put in the hours. All those countless weekends when I had opted to plow through essays and miscellaneous assignments so I’d have ample time to review them before their deadlines, consequently forgoing spontaneous beach days and ski trips. All to ensure high marks, while filling my “free time” with campus club meetings. After all, a Young Soarer is “a leader who keeps their visions in sight, navigating their way through storms and maneuvering with gravitas.”

Check, check, and check.

Unfortunately, however, I’m missing one vital check: sufficient work experience abroad. And no, my semester in Sevilla doesn’t count. Studying in a foreign country for six months is apparently too mainstream these days.

Muddled conversation and clanging silverware pounds through the speaker. I almost forgot Tiff and I were on the phone.

“Hey, do you want me to send the au pair website your way?” she asks.

“Why?” I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles getting whiter.

“You need the experience, right?” Her voice teeters on a matterof-fact and polite suggestion seesaw.

My jaw clenches as the law firm’s r ejection s warms m y frontal lobe.

“I don’t know if that qualifies,” I grumble.

“It should. You know my brothers. What our au pair will be putting up with can probably guarantee her a seat in the CIA.”

Stomping on the car break, my torso lunges into my seatbelt. Narrowly avoiding a deer darting across the road and into my headlight, the brown lunch bag holding my precious tortillas goes flying toward the glove compartment before spilling out on the sand-caked floor mat. Lovely.

And by the time I pull into the driveway, my spicy rice bowl is getting lukewarm enough where it’ll need the microwave to zap it back to life; the perfect segue to cut this conversation loose before I have to endure any more embarrassing pity.

i don’t know what made me do it.

Okay, false.

Pinot noir. That’s the culprit.

Seriously, the one night I let myself go wild. What can I say? One and a half glasses later, and I’m a different woman.

I had just finished my spicy chicken, extra guac burrito bowl when the notification popped up on my phone. Tiff sent a picture of her family and the au pair from their earlier dinner. Next to pasta-saucesmeared plates, their wine glasses hold only a few drops. It’d probably been one of those long dinners, where they’ve lost track of time and eaten so much but still have room to shovel in a few spoonfuls of Häagen-Dazs.

Must be nice. I take a long sip from my own glass.

“Don’t waste me!” the red wine screams. I reason it’ll start tasting funky tomorrow. Plus, I’m not too tipsy . . . yet.

As if my fingers have a mind and motive of their own, they tap away atmy laptop’s keyboard. I’ve interruptedmy realitydatingshow and intermittent Instagram scrolls for this very important careerhinging research. It leaves me staring at the words “au pair jobs” sitting in the search bar. Hey, I have to indulge myself. If I can finagle an

international job overnight, then only three months stand between me and submitting my perfectly pristine Young Soarers application. And when I’m obviously inducted—seriously, how many candidates have dedicated two thirds of their lives to whetting their marketable skills and curating an immaculate academic record?—it’ll at long last be the satiating culmination to a nearly fifteen-year-long effort. An odyssey more like.

I tighten the grip on my phone, scanning Tiff’s photo. Then I scour the search results on my laptop and am drawn to the first company that pops up. Dare to Au Pair. The name taunts me a little. I click on the website link, and gigs posted from the Pacific Islands to India confetti the screen. My eyes examine the postings as my hand attempts to pour the last few drops from the bottle. The wine has obviously impaired my dexterity, my hand magnetically repelling itself from the glass as I struggle to get the cherry red liquid into the cup. A few droplets splash on the Continental Air brochures strewn along the counter, right across CEO Howard Gupta’s face, staining his plump cheeks. His quote bubble snags my attention.

“We treasure your trip, big or small. Whether you’re flying from Chicago to Sydney or London to Florence.”

Mmm, Florence. Italy. Pasta. I could roll with that. But after thirty minutes of trying to find any open au pair positions around Florence, I was realizing I was a little late to the game. Italy must be a hot commodity for au pair hopefuls. I bet it’s a bunch of eighteen-year-olds who want to take a gap year, fly to Europe, fall in love, and eat the best food of their lives.

And maybe they will, good for them. But I’m not into wishful thinking. It’s never resulted in anything I can rely on.

Combing through the last remaining European positions, I stumble on one that was only posted fourteen hours prior. The site doesn’t give much detail on the family for privacy reasons. The only information I can see is three kids, ages eight to eleven. Èze, France.

A quick Google Maps search tells me it’s on the French Riviera near Cannes and Nice.

So maybe it’s not Italy. But it’s on the Mediterranean. And I do love a good baguette. Besides, when I studied abroad in Spain, I hardly touched France, except for one hurried weekend trip to Paris. Maybe Èze would be a good fit. Plus, the man ringing me out at a souvenir shop back in Charles de Gaulle airport had even told me I looked French. I still don’t know what he meant by that. Maybe it’s my brunette hair or the way I purse my lips when perusing a store. Could be my freckled skin or curvy hips or the fact that I can just barely skate by on basic French thanks to some affinity for language learning.

Thank goodness Mom’s at choir rehearsal, unable to hear me drunkenly converse with myself as I rationalize this application and browse plane tickets. Normally, I’d sleuth through “pros and cons” and “liked, didn’t like” videos on YouTube to help make my decisions. But tonight, the pinot dictates. And I don’t care if it is the wine talking; my gut is telling me this’ll be good. How can it not be? Dips in the glittering Mediterranean Sea, fresh-baked croissants, and I just have to watch some kids a few days a week. I mean, I’ve babysat before, in much less glamorous settings. And this does sound more attractive than the internship I didn’t even get: filing paperwork and arranging a tax attorney’s schedule in Dublin. I’ll probably have spare afternoons to get some writing in—screenplay treatments, documentary outlines, the like. Maybe I’ll embellish my creative portfolio, snapping some pictures and establishing video shots. A deep breath fills my lungs and swiftly escapes me as my email dings.

It’s from the Welcome Team at Dare to Au Pair. That was fast.

The subject line reads, “Félicitations et Bienvenue!”

I didn’t think this far ahead.

Holy craptastic crapperoni.

Truly, I wasn’t expecting unicorns to start line dancing across the floor while the New England Patriots sprayed champagne on me. But I thought I would feel something a bit more special than the heartburn swirling in my chest. Those fleeting seconds of relief after reading the congratulatory email came and went, leaving me right where I started—lying on my living room couch, no one around to divulge the news to.

Is this how all my classmates felt? The ones that got their jobs pregraduation? What did they do after the momentary little joy ride from uploading their “thrilled to announce . . .” posts on LinkedIn?

Something about “So grateful to have graduated from one of the top business schools in the country, and now I’m gonna be a European nanny, but don’t worry because it’s just a dues-paying means to an end” just doesn’t sit right.

I’d rather keep my feed blank and save it for something worthwhile.

Mom took the news as best as she could. I wasn’t fortunate enough to escape her blank stare that had drawn out for what felt like eternity. She followed up with her slew of questions that I couldn’t answer because the au pair coordinators didn’t tell me jack.

“Is it safe? How do you know? Are they paying you? What about food? What will Continental think?”

That last one irked me most of all. Why would they care? It’s not like this type of work is beneath them. Besides, why can’t I make a decision for myself without feeling like I need the world’s thumbs up?

Anyway, it’ll be the breath of fresh air I need from living at home. Don’t get me wrong, Mom is a wonderful human. She makes the best pot roast and gladly joins me for ocean swims, even when the water temperature dips below sixty degrees. Aside from that, we’re two very different people. Exhibit A: She dutifully attends weekly vestry meetings, and I go to church on my yoga mat surrounded by quartz crystals. Do I need an Exhibit B?

We respect our differences, but the air is getting stale. And working abroad as a last-ditch effort to bolster my Young Soarers application sounds a bit more enticing than sitting around the house waiting for her to tell me for the nineteenth time this eon to clean out my closet. All while I go on another string of failed dates. No thanks.

The morning after I applied to my summer soiree, a hefty hangover loomed in my forehead—what I get for going with the nine dollar, bottom-shelf bottle of red. I tried for about two hours to undo my application, but in my drunken state, it looks like I had signed the binding e-contract after the coordinator sent me my acceptance email. And I wasn’t really looking to drop $500 on the withdrawal fee.

It all happened so fast. I didn’t even have time to regret it, because my flight to France would take off thirty-six hours after my acceptance email came through, and I had to pack three months’ worth of clothes into one suitcase.

When I told Tiff the news, she cackled until my silence clued her in that I wasn’t joking, and yes, I was actually doing it. We promised to FaceTime, but we’re reluctant to admit that it’s just a nicety meant to make ourselves feel better. These days, text is our norm, even when we live four miles away from each other. This time, I think we both know

what’ll end up happening. She’ll be free when I’m busy and vice versa. The five hour time difference is just an added hindrance.

Our friendship clinging to childhood memories, it’s like my best friend is slipping through my fingers. Like our chapter together is closing for now. Then who will I have? My social life has shriveled up like a raisin in the sun. Once the corporate era starts, Tiff will be living it up in New York with her boyfriend, Trey, and I’ll probably coop up in some dingy Boston apartment alone. All our other college friends have moved out of state to bigger and better things, or so they say. But at least I’ll be in my dream job with Continental Air once this joke of a summer is through. I hope.

the plane ride, rather vainly I thought, would be productive.

“I’ll have so much time to brainstorm,” I said to myself. Maybe I’d finally finish my documentary outline on Icelandic orca pods or the memoir from study abroad that’s nagging for my attention.

Sometimes I appease the Capricorn in me with the productive butterflies that come from thinking about the work, as if the act of planning it is equally as exciting as doing it. But the leather-bound journal and my favorite ballpoint pen sit in my backpack underneath the seat in front of me. And I don’t bother moving an inch to retrieve them.

Instead, a twisting knot swells in my stomach. It’s an all-too-familiar feeling. I felt this same out-of-body confusion watching my classmates walk across the graduation stage. Each of them wearing ear-to-ear smiles and the same not-so-flattering cap and gown. The promise of new adventures brimming in their eyes. A gilded vision of the future. An illusion. Seriously, did they really shake President Cawley’s hand thinking, “Goodbye shotgunning beers outside the football stadium. Hello cube farm at insurance firm. This is where the real fun

begins.” Who am I to assume? Maybe they’re stoked, and I’m glad for them. But I can’t be the only one who didn’t want anything to do with that. Or they just have immaculate poker faces.

Still, it doesn’t change where I’m at now. It’s not like I can redo college. I don’t know which direction I’d choose if I even had the chance. Filmmaker of sorts, yes. But when a career lives on a project-to-project basis with no guarantee of stability, income, or health insurance, it’s hard to even think about taking the leap. Or, at least, that’s what my divorced mother has drilled into me.

Plus, it’s hard to admit to friends, family, and even strangers my dream to be a full-time creative if I’m not already a world-renowned Octavia Butler or Steven Spielberg. Like until you’ve won an Oscar or have taken home a National Book Award, don’t even bother classifying yourself a creator of any caliber. It’s a baseless and wildly false extrapolation, I know. But tell that to my clenching throat whenever someone asks about my real career aspirations.

My education is invaluable, I know it. Outside the major, it got me to think critically, to ask questions and learn from unique angles. I just wonder if my diploma read something different, what path it might have opened up for me.

But I can’t daydream any more could-have, should-have, or would-have scenarios. Because if my plan of becoming a Young Soarer inductee comes to fruition, I’ll be well on my way to living out the timeline on my vision board’s collage of magazine clippings.

Kat McLauren, travel writer extraordinaire with the nest egg to dive into the world of entertainment. A clear vision at my ship’s helm . . . hopefully. Sure, there may be some residual impatience for not throwing the ten-year plan aside and taking life by the horns now. But I’m not willing to chance sitting in a two-hundred-square-foot apartment eating Cup Noodles for the ninth night in a row, wondering why I threw my common sense down the drain. Fact is, the uncertainty of it all would chew me up and never spit me out.

On top of all of this swirling in a constant loop around my head, I can’t possibly write even half a sentence on this circus of a flight. Across the aisle are two women who apparently hadn’t read the unofficial rules to pipe down after dinner was served on the red eye.

Nope, they go right on with their conversation, so by the time we’ve reached the middle of the Atlantic, everyone onboard, including the pilot, can tell how upset woman #1 is with her daughter becoming a yoga instructor in Bali and how woman #2 can’t fathom where the younger generation’s work ethic has gone.

It completely interrupts my perusal of the sparse documents the Dare to Au Pair company had sent about the kids I’ve been assigned. An eleven-year-old girl and two eight-year-olds, a boy and a girl. No names listed. All that’s provided is an image of a rustic cottage, an address, a list of French emergency services numbers, and a brochure highlighting must-see attractions in the French Riviera.

The plane gabbers continue on with their gossip, so I cue the noise-canceling headphones.

Ah, that’s better. The first dollop of quiet on this trip settles in, bringing with it a tingling in my stomach. I don’t have enough evidence or Wi-Fi signal to consult Google for which of my chakras is getting all fired up. Then I begin to feel something else. Down my back this time. Not tingly. Wet. Cold and wet.

What the—

I leap forward as the chill sends shivers up and down my spine. Turning around, I meet the menace. It’s a three year old who spilled his juice bottle. I smile at him and then his father who desperately apologizes in French. I open my mouth but realize I have no clue how to say this in his language. So I go with what I know that’s closest.

“It’s okay. Está bien.” My aggressive head nods communicate more than my words.

He’s cute The kid, I mean. Well, the dad’s not too bad looking himself. Forget age. He looks like he could be in a Giorgio Armani

commercial. But as much as I can hope for a drop of vain attention, I’m delusional if I think he’d ever flirt with me. Without makeup, I can pass as a high school sophomore.

I wave to the little boy. At first he playfully grins, biting one of his fingers and giggling intermittently. But that ends without warning. Not two seconds later, his juice bottle goes flying and smacks me right in the forehead. His laughter explodes as the orange juice drips down my jawline. Other passengers offer napkins and empathetic glances that make me want to hurl.

Instead, I scurry to the bathroom at the rear of the plane and comply with the faucet’s weak water pressure. The hairs framing my face are still sticky as I coat them with a damp paper towel. The coolness gives me pause, and I stare at myself in the reflection.

What am I doing?

I’ve exceedingly succeeded in having the most dreadful start-of-ajourney flight. Maybe this’ll be the only bad juju for the trip. There’s a hiccup in every travel story, right? I’ve just gotten it out of the way early on. I’m fine with that. So long as it’s not foreshadowing my life for the next three months. I thought babysitting would be easy.

After I return to my seat and give the father and his kid a polite it’s-not-okay-but-I’ll-pretend-like-it-is nod, I grip the plastic armrests for the next three hours as my worries torment my brain.

What if I just quit while I’m ahead?

No, I can’t do that. My hopefully-soon-to-be Continental Air coworkers will think I have the work ethic of a fruit fly. But maybe I can find an excuse that would let me go home. Something socially acceptable that wouldn’t stab my integrity or conscience. In the meantime, I just hope I can wrangle these kids better than I can the toddler kicking my seat.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

The summer of ’69: memorable for some, murder for others.

Detective Susan Ford and her new partner, Detective Jack Tomelli, are called to a crime scene at the local summer stock theater where they find the director of Murder on the Orient Express gruesomely murdered—naked, face caked in makeup, pillow at his feet, wrists and ankles bound by rope. When Susan describes the murder to her dad, retired detective Will Ford, he recognizes the MO of a 1969 serial killer . . . a case he worked fifty years ago.

Will remembers a lot of things about that summer—the Woodstock Festival, the Apollo 11 moon landing, the Miracle Mets—yet he is fuzzy on the details of the decades-old case. But when Susan and Jack discover the old case files, his memories start trickling back. And with each old and new clue, Susan, Jack, and Will must narrow down the pool of suspects before the killer strikes again.

“The Summer of Love and Death is everything I want in a mystery. An addictive and entertaining ride!” —Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author

Marcy McCreary is the author of the Ford Family Mystery series: The Summer of Love and Death, The Murder of Madison Garcia, and The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon, which was a finalist for a Silver Falchion Award for Best Investigator Mystery. Her essays about crime fiction have appeared in Mystery & Suspense, Criminal Element, Women Writers/Women’s Books, and Mystery Readers Journal. She graduated from The George Washington University with a B.A. in American literature and political science and pursued a career in marketing and communications. She lives in Hull, MA with her husband, Lew.

The summer of love and death Marcy

The summer of love and death

The summer of love and death

Z A FORD FAMILY MYSTERY Z

Marcy McCreary

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Marcy McCreary

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310597

Paperback ISBN 9780744310610

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310641

eBook ISBN 9780744310634

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310658

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by Md Saidur Rahman, Moorsky, Sylverarts, Theerakit

5 3 1 2 4

FOR MOM

Feel free to rip this page out of the book and hang on your refrigerator. I win. 3

FRIDAY | AUGUST 16, 2019

YOU KNOW that jittery, gut-roiling feeling you get when heading out on a blind date? That brew of nerves, anxiety, anticipation—plus a hint of dread. That pretty much summed up my morning. Today was the day, and standing at the front door, it finally hit me. I was no longer flying solo. A new partner was waiting for me down at the station. My fingers twitchy, I fumbled with the zipper of my yellow slicker as I stood in front of the framed poster—an illustration of a white dove perched on a blue guitar neck, gripped by ivory fingers against a bright red background—touting three days of peace and music. Usually, I paid it no mind. But today it captured my attention. A signal, perhaps, that everything would turn out just fine, like it did exactly fifty years ago when four hundred thousand idealistic hippies descended upon this town. A projected disaster that ended up being a glorious experience. The legendary summer of love.

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair didn’t take place in Woodstock, New York. The residents of Woodstock were not keen on having

the initially projected fifty thousand hippies traipsing through their town. The concert promoters eventually secured Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York—fifty-eight miles from Woodstock and six miles from where I live now. I was four at the time. I have no memory of it. Mom said I was sicker than sick that weekend. Ear infection. Fever escalating to 104 degrees. She tried to take me to a doctor, but the roads were clogged with festival revelers, so she had to postpone my appointment until Tuesday. But by then, the worst of it was over.

Fifty years. Those teenagers were in their sixties and seventies now. The older ones in their eighties. How many of them were still idealistic? How many were still into peace, love, and understanding? How many “dropped out” and berated “the man,” only later to find themselves the beneficiaries of capitalism? Becoming “the man.”

I leaned over slightly as I reached for the doorknob. The door swung open unexpectedly, smacking me in the forehead. “Whoa.” I ran my fingertips along my hairline. No bump. For now.

“Sorry, babe.” Ray’s voice drew Moxie’s attention. Our thirteenyear-old lab mix moseyed into the foyer, tail in full swing. Moseying was really all Moxie could muster these days. “Didn’t realize you were standing there.”

Ray had left the house an hour earlier. I peered over his shoulder at the running Jeep. “Forget something?”

“Yeah. My wallet.” Ray stepped inside, dripping. Moxie stared up at him, waiting. He squatted and rubbed her ears. “Raining cats and dogs out there. No offense, Moxie.” He glanced up at the poster. “Just like fifty years ago.” He sighed.

Ray’s parents were married at the festival by a traveling minister. One-year-old Ray in tow (earning him bragging rights as one of the youngest people to attend Woodstock). Tomorrow would have been their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Their death, at the hand of a drunk driver twelve years ago, spawned a program called Better Mad Than Sad—a class baked into the local drivers-ed curriculum that Ray (and

The Summer of Love and Death

the drunk driver’s girlfriend, Marisa) created ten years ago. Parents would join their kids for a fifty-minute session in which they pledged to pick up their kids or their kid’s friends, no questions asked, no judgment passed.

Last month, Ray reached out to a few of his and his parents’ friends asking if they would be up for a “celebration of life” vigil at the Woodstock Festival site this evening. Nothing formal. Just twenty or so folks standing around, reminiscing and shooting the shit about his parents. Ray shook the rain off his jacket. “Met your new partner this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s very good-looking.” He smirked, then added, “Movie-star good looking.”

I leaned back and gave Ray the once-over. “I’m more into the rough-around-the-edges type.”

“So I got nothing to worry about?”

“Not as long as you treat me right.” I smiled coyly.

I had been without an official partner for a little over a year, since July 2018. My ex-partner bought a small farm in Vermont. He told me not to take it personally, but he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still wondered if I contributed to his anxiety in some small way. Then I got shot in the thigh that August. So hiring a new partner was put on hold. Upon my return to active duty in October of 2018, I was assigned an under-the-radar cold case with my dad brought on as consulting partner. By the time the Trudy Solomon case was resolved, in December 2018, Chief Eldridge still hadn’t found a suitable replacement. Small-town policing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. So for the better part of 2019, it was just me and my shadow. Dad and Ray assisted on the Madison Garcia case, but the chief made it clear that protocol called for two detectives working a case, and my partnerless days were numbered. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I didn’t want a partner. I did. I just wished I had a say in who it was.

333

THE DREADED handshake awaited me as I walked into the precinct. I thought about using the “I-have-a-cold” excuse, but lying to Detective John Tomelli on Day One seemed like a dishonest way to kick off what should be a trusting partnership.

“There she is,” Eldridge called out, motioning me over to where he and Detective Tomelli were standing.

John thrust his right hand forward.

“Ford doesn’t do handshakes,” Eldridge said.

“Oh, oh,” John said, furrowing his brow and drawing his hand back to his side.

“Just getting over a cold,” I said with wavering conviction. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, as I spent all of July on antibiotics for a sinus infection.

“Well, I’ll let you two get to know each other,” Eldridge said, backing away toward his office.

“So, John—”

“Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah, everyone calls me Jack.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“My dad’s name is John. So to avoid confusion . . . y’know.” He eyed my right hand. “What’s with the no handshakes?”

“Well, Jack, I have a weird medical malady called palmar hyperhidrosis. Ever hear of it?”

He shook his head.

I held up my palms and wiggled my fingers. “Sweaty palms. Uncontrollably clammy hands.”

“Does it affect your ability to handle a gun?”

And this was why I didn’t tell anyone.

“No,” I said curtly. “It doesn’t,” I added for good measure.

Nothing like getting off on the wrong foot on the first day. I had to admit, he was very good-looking (Ray was right about that). But John/ Jack wasn’t my type—I wasn’t blowing smoke when I told Ray I like my men rough around the edges, and this guy was as smooth as they came, right down to his perfectly coifed jet-black hair. It was going to take more than his chiseled jaw and dimpled cheeks to win me over after that barb.

“Ford! Tomelli!” Eldridge shouted before Jack had a chance to say anything else on the matter.

Jack led the way. At the door, he stepped aside and waved me in. Instead of being appreciative of the gesture, I wondered if I was a guy if he would have proffered the same courtesy. Was this a “ladies first” move or was he merely deferring to my seniority? I didn’t know what was pissing me off most—his Hollywood good looks, that gun remark, or the fact that he just treated me like his date. Shake it off, Susan.

“I just got a call from dispatch,” Eldridge said as we lingered in front of his desk. “Possible homicide at the Monticello Playhouse. Paramedics are there now. Pronounced dead at the scene. Mark and Gloria are on their way. As is CSI.”

“Mark and Gloria?” Jack asked.

“Mark Sheffield is the county’s medical examiner and Gloria Weinberg is our crime scene photographer,” I explained.

Jack turned to Eldridge. “Who’s the victim?”

Eldridge peered down at the paper on his desk. “The woman who called it in said it was one of the actors. Didn’t say which one.”

Jack turned to me and smirked. “I’ll drive.”

My blood started to boil. Mom had a theory about exceedingly handsome men, especially those who knew they were. They strut like peacocks and puff out their chests to draw attention to themselves, then, after they get what they want, they shimmy over to the next shiny new object, and you’re left wondering if it was something you said, something you did, or that you’re just not special enough. Mom was

Marcy McCreary

Miss Sullivan County 1961 and had her fair share of good-looking beaus, including my dad. So, perhaps she did speak from experience. Although a grain of salt was always needed when it came to Mom’s doctrines. Was Jack one of these guys? Big ego, take charge, deliberately making me feel fragile compared to his manly-man bullshit.

Or was I making a big-ass mountain out of a pint-sized molehill?

333

THE MONTICELLO Playhouse was situated a mile down the road from the Holiday Mountain Ski and Fun Park—a seven-slope ski area with an elevation of thirteen hundred feet and a vertical drop of four hundred feet. I spent many youthful days zipping down their trails. Back then, you had to rely on Mother Nature for a good coating, and most winters delivered what was needed. These days, the owners relied on snowmaking machines—it was the only way for the ski area to survive the warming winters of climate change.

Jack lifted his hand from the steering wheel and pointed toward the windshield. “Ski area?” he asked as we passed the entrance sign. “Looks open.”

“Yeah. It doubles as an amusement park in the summer. Arcades, rock climbing wall, bumper boats. That kinda thing.” I side-eyed Jack. “You should take your kids.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Don’t have kids. You? You have kids?”

“One kid. Adult kid. Natalie.”

I waited for him to ask a follow-up question. How old? What does she do for a living? Grandkids? But he just tapped his thumbs on the leather-encased steering wheel of his fancy Volvo. I thought about volunteering more info, get a conversation going, get to know each other better, but he seemed tucked away in his own thoughts. Neither of us said another word.

The Summer of Love and Death

We pulled into the parking lot of the theater. Jack swiveled his head from side to side, then swung his car to the right and parked below a canopy of trees, a good ways away from the hubbub of activity. Above our heads, birds tweeted in melodious call-and-response chirps.

I spotted Mark’s silver Honda Accord and Gloria’s Chevy pickup truck. “Gang’s all here.”

Jack popped open the trunk and grabbed his crime-scene kit, a duffel containing personal protective gear, evidence markers, and evidence-collection equipment.

As Jack and I strode up the stone walkway toward the entrance of the playhouse, Officer Sally McIver and her partner appeared from around the side of the building. Sally jogged over to us.

“You must be the new guy,” Sally said. “Detective John Tomelli?”

“You can call me Jack.”

“Jack it is.” Sally held out her hand and Jack shook it firmly. She turned to her right. “This is my partner, Officer Ron Wallace.”

Ron stepped forward. “About time they filled the position,” he said, pumping Jack’s hand.

“You guys first on scene?” I asked.

“Yeah. I just surveyed the ground under the windows,” Ron said, twisting around toward the theater. “Nothing obvious, but I took photos, just in case. Hopefully, Gloria can get some pro shots before the rain starts up again.” He paused. “All the windows lock from the inside.”

Sally picked up the thread. “I checked inside the building and all the windows were locked. Doesn’t mean someone didn’t crawl through an open window, lock it from the inside, and then exit through one of the doors, but that’s for you two to figure out.”

I glanced over at the actors’ dormitory, situated about twenty yards from the theater. A small crowd had gathered outside, craning their necks and whispering among themselves. Three officers stood between them and us, keeping them at bay.

“Mounted cameras anywhere?” I asked Ron and Sally, remembering how an obscure CCTV camera helped get my ass out of trouble a year ago.

“Nothing obvious,” Sally replied. “But they could be hidden. I’ll look around.”

“Let’s get a perimeter going,” I said to Ron, scanning the vast outdoor area around the theater. “Fifteen yards out from the theater. Also, set up a single entry-exit point over there. I’ll get one of the other officers to log who comes and goes.”

I turned to Sally. “Who found the victim?”

Sally flipped open her notebook. “Jean Cranmore, the woman in charge of costumes. She’s over there.” Sally pointed to a fiftysomething redheaded woman sitting on a nearby bench, her hands tucked between her knees, rocking back and forth. Her blue windbreaker zipped up to her chin. “I took her statement when I first arrived. She said she’s seen enough cop shows to know not to let anyone near the body or say anything to anyone, so at least we know the crime scene hasn’t been contaminated.”

“Eldridge said it’s one of the actors,” Jack said. “Did she say which one?”

“Actually, the director.” Sally scanned her notes. “Adam Kincaid. She said she was freaked out and must have said actor by mistake when she called 9-1-1.”

“Let her know I’ll speak to her after I’ve surveyed the crime scene.” I noted that a scowl formed on Jack’s face when I used the word I instead of we. Perhaps I should have explained that it was merely a habit from not having a partner for a while. But I let the moment pass.

Sally jutted her chin toward the walkway that separated the dormitory from the theater. “What about the lookie-loos over there?”

“Interview them as well. That’ll help me sort out who I need to talk to first.” Oops. Did it again.

Sally flipped her notebook closed. “Will do.”

“You saw the body?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s a weird one,” Sally hinted, knowing full well that I preferred to assess the crime scene without exposition. “You’ll see.”

333

THE MONTICELLO Playhouse used to be a Catholic church. It sat abandoned for fifteen years, until Malcolm Slater bought it six years ago. Yeah, that Malcolm Slater . . . lead singer of Blueberry Fields, an alternative rock band that dominated the radio airwaves in the nineties. After calling it quits with his bandmates in the mid-aughts, he drifted over to the production side of the business and opened a recording studio in the neighboring town of Forestburgh, New York. The guy was a bit of a celebrity around here. Rumor had it he was also a prima donna.

Malcolm Slater not only invested in the property, but he installed himself as the theater’s executive director, providing the bulk of the funding for the summer stock productions. Some called it philanthropy, a gift to revitalize the area. Others believed he had an ulterior motive . . . to give his girlfriend, Shana Lowry, a stage and a starring role.

I gazed up at the white gable-roofed building, the narrow bell tower shooting straight up over the entrance. Slater did a heck of a job transforming it from a rundown church to a refurbished theater. I’d give him that.

Jack raced by me, taking two steps at a time as he ascended the ten steps to the porch landing. He stood in front of the wooden double doors. I sucked in my breath, then slowly exhaled before climbing the stairs.

He unzipped the duffel and extracted two plastic bags containing Tyvek coveralls, booties, and a pair of blue latex gloves. He tossed one of the bags in my direction. We quickly donned our PPE. Jack opened the door and, once again, stepped aside and waved me through. With

a tightlipped smile, I hurried into the foyer, then up the aisle toward the stage. Mark was center stage, leaning over the body. Gloria was in the orchestra pit, hunched over her camera equipment. She looked up and waved me over. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jack making his way up the aisle.

“Bring me up to speed,” I said to Gloria.

“Just took the global photos. Waiting on you for midrange and close-up.” Gloria tipped her head toward the dead body. “I’ve photographed a lot of crime scenes in my day, but this one takes the proverbial cake.”

As I mounted the steps to the stage, I heard Jack introduce himself to Gloria.

Mark stepped away from the body and walked toward me. When Jack caught up to me, I initiated the introductions. “Jack, meet Mark Sheffield, Sullivan County’s death investigator and medical examiner and, in my nobody-gives-a-shit opinion, one of the best in the business.”

“Good to meet you, Mark.”

“Likewise. Ready?”

Mark led the way to the center of the stage where the body was situated. Jack remained behind me but close on my heels. Was this deference or a case of nerves?

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t what I saw. No one prepares you for that.

333

A MAN, roughly late twenties, lay in a narrow platform bed.

I sucked in my breath, holding it for a few moments, then expelled a puff of air. Holy shit were the only two words that came to mind. I was so entranced, I wasn’t even sure I uttered them out loud. I looked over at Jack. His mouth was agape. I turned back to the body and inventoried the scene.

The victim’s wrists and ankles bound by rough-hewn rope. Fancy nautical knots. Naked. And that wasn’t the worst part of this tableau. His face was caked in smeared makeup. Lips bright red. Cheeks pink with blush. Eyelids powdery blue. A white pillow—placed below the feet of the deceased—was also smeared in makeup, looking like a second-rate Vasily Kandinsky knockoff. And if this gruesome display wasn’t enough to throw me for a loop, the killer had laid a dazzling peace sign necklace over his heart. Shimmering hues of blue, green, and yellow stained glass soldered between the copper foil lines creating the peace symbol.

Jack swayed, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. “What the—?”

Well, we shared that sentiment. I bent over to get a better look at the man’s face, somehow thinking a close-up view would explain this twisted scene. But all I could make out was a pale face under swirls of garish color.

Someone, quite possibly associated with this theater, went to a whole heck of a lot of trouble to stage this body in this grotesque manner. A message? A warning? A clown fetish? And what’s with the stained-glass necklace? The killer’s calling card, perhaps? I closed my eyes to ground myself and focus on what else seemed out of place. A large makeup case sat on the floor at the side of the bed. I looked around for clothes, but there was not a stitch of discarded clothing anywhere on the stage. Jack was now hovering at my side, angling to get a better look, so I stepped aside. He wheezed slightly but remained silent as he took in the scene.

I turned to face Mark. “Approximate time of death?”

“It was called in at nine fifteen this morning. Based on rigor and lividity, I’d say between eight last night and eight this morning. Hopefully someone can tell you when he was last seen alive . . . help you narrow that down.”

“Cause of death?”

“Possible asphyxiation,” he said, pointing to the pillow. “There’s some bruising around his nose and mouth. But until I get him back to the morgue I won’t know for sure. Didn’t put up much of a fight, so I’m thinking drugged, then smothered. Tox panel will give a fuller picture.”

“Can you make this a priority?”

“It’s not up to me,” Mark replied with a sigh. “But a bizarre murder like this will get the brass’s attention.”

I moved to the foot of the bed to inspect the body from a different angle. If I thought this vantage point would make the sight of this spectacle easier to stomach, I was dead wrong. “Well, we’ve got to make this a priority. Something this outlandish tells me we have a madman in our midst. I’m hoping our vic here was specifically targeted, but we could be looking at something more sinister.”

“A serial killer?” Jack offered. “Shit. Perhaps everyone in the cast are sitting ducks.”

That thought crossed my mind, but I wasn’t ready to jump to any conclusions. That was how Dad operated. I tend to hold off on assumptions until I’ve amassed more facts. But if we were dealing with a serial killer with a penchant for dolling up his victims, I feared we were going to need outside help.

I could just picture the attention-grabbing moniker the press would give our perp: the Makeup Murderer of Monticello or the Peace Sign Perp or some such nonsense. Was Jack right? Was it possible that the cast were sitting ducks? “Let’s hope you’re wrong about that,” I finally said.

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Is this bed part of the set?”

“Yeah,” Gloria chimed in, then turned to me. “You’re gonna love this, Susan . . . they’ve been rehearsing Agatha’s Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. Supposed to open tonight.”

“Murder on the Orient Express is a play?” I was familiar with the book and movie (Ray and I watched the movie about a year ago, when

we were both waylaid with a stomach bug. His first viewing, my second), but I had no idea it was adapted for the stage.

Mark straightened up. All six foot six of him in full view now. “Yeah, in fact I had tickets to the Sunday show.”

“Well, I hope you can get a refund, because I’m pretty sure there won’t be a Sunday show. It’s going to take a while to process and clear the scene.” I surveyed the stage for anything else out of the ordinary. But nothing leaped out at me. “They’ll be lucky if they open on Monday . . . if at all.”

My phone rang. It was Sally. I walked to stage right. Or was it stage left? I could never remember if the wings were from the actor’s perspective or the audience’s perspective. “Yeah.”

“I got Malcolm Slater out here. He’s demanding to go inside.”

“He can demand until the cows come home. Tell him I’ll be out to talk to him when I’m done in here.”

A man’s voice erupted through the line. “Give me the phone!”

Sally abruptly ended the call. She’s no shrinking violet. If anyone can handle that guy, she can. An aging rocker versus a no-nonsense police officer with two tours in Iraq under her belt. I got my money on Sally. Even so, I did not appreciate being rushed, but suddenly felt somewhat obliged to speak with Malcolm Slater sooner rather than later. I rejoined our little group and conferred with Gloria on the midrange and close-up shots. Jack simply nodded as I spoke. The side door opened and a sudden burst of light illuminated the stage. Three county CSIs entered and strode toward us.

“Let’s use this pathway for getting on and off the stage,” I said, motioning with my arms a narrow passage from where we were all standing to the steps. “Jack, can you mark the path with the cones? There should be some in the CSK. Feel free to confer with CSI. I’m going outside to chat with the theater’s executive director.”

Before Jack could object or offer a different strategy, I turned away from him. I flashed a smile at Gloria, and she winked back. She knew

exactly what I was doing. Establishing my dominance. Making sure Jack knew who was in charge.

333

BEFORE LEAVING the theater, I lingered in the lobby. I had hurried through this area when first arriving with Jack and didn’t get a chance to see if anything was amiss in here. Along the wall to my right were three evenly spaced five-foot-long wooden benches—a seating area for patrons to wait for the theater doors to open or perhaps chat with fellow theatergoers during intermission. On the wall to my left hung eleven-by-fourteen framed photographs of all the troupes—cast and crew—who had performed in the theater over the years. I walked over to the photograph closest to the door: the first troupe to perform in 2014. I strolled down to the last photograph. Engraved on a gold-plated plaque above this photograph were the words: Cast and Crew of Mousetrap and Murder on the Orient Express, Summer 2019. I surveyed the faces of the people who were about to be shocked to hear the news about their director.

When I exited the theater, I beelined it to Sally, who was standing at the designated entry/exit point. Pacing behind the yellow crime tape was none other than Malcolm Slater —tall and wiry, with hair too dark and too long for a man his age, which I pegged at about fifty. He charged toward me.

“I’ve been standing out here in the rain for a fucking hour!” he screamed, tilting his large black umbrella slightly backward. “I’ll have your badge! Your supervisor will be hearing about this. Chief Cliff Eldridge, right?”

“You’re free to file a complaint,” I said, doing my best to sound cordial. Well, somewhat cordial. I glanced around looking for shelter and spotted a large shed at the edge of the tree line. “We haven’t cleared that shed over there, but we can talk under the overhang.”

As we strode toward the shed, plump droplets replaced the gentle mist. By the time we reached the overhang, the rain intensified, and all I could think about was all the outdoor evidence being washed away.

“I have a right to know what’s going on in my theater.” Malcom lowered his umbrella, shook off the water, and pulled it shut. “Was there an accident? Or something . . . worse?”

“There’s been a murder. The body has been identified by a witness, so until we notify next of kin, there is not much more I can tell you.”

He stepped closer to me. “What witness? Who?” he demanded, waving his free hand around.

“You need to calm down, Mr. Slater.” I said in my firm, steady, kindergarten-teacher voice.

“This is bullshit! Utter bullshit!” He shook the umbrella, causing it to open slightly. He grabbed the little strap and secured it around the middle. “Was it someone in the cast or crew? At least tell me that much.”

“Mr. Slater, I have an investigation to run. I will not risk fucking this up just because you threaten to ‘speak to my superior’ or ‘have my badge.’ Got it?”

Malcolm stepped back. He opened his mouth, but quickly snapped it shut.

I took a baby step toward him, closing the gap. I also knew a thing or two about intimidation. “Who has access to your theater at night?”

Malcolm rocked slightly back on his heel but maintained his position. “Ricky is responsible for locking the front and side doors after rehearsals and shows, but there are a few people who have keys to the side door.”

“Ricky?”

“Ricky Saunders. Our maintenance guy.”

“Okay. I’ll need a list of everyone who has a key.”

I thought this demand would be met with resistance, but he merely scowled, then quickly said, “Sure.”

I thought about stepping back, giving him more space, but decided to stand my ground, not give an inch, make it crystal clear I was not taking his guff.

“Are there security cameras on the premises?”

Malcolm sniffed derisively. “I find them to be invasions of privacy. And I don’t want my actors to think I’m spying on them.”

That’s understandable, given his previous profession. In his heyday, the paparazzi were relentless. He’d leaned heavily into the “sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll” stereotype. Although I always felt some of his shenanigans seemed manufactured, played up for publicity.

“Who lives in the old rectory?”

Malcolm tilted his head to the right, craning over my shoulder to glimpse the building. “The Equity actors and a few department heads live on the first and second floors. The non-Equity actors live on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. There’s a smaller building behind the rectory that houses the crew.”

“And those bungalows?” I asked, pointing to the edge of the property abutting the woods.

Malcolm’s eyes followed my finger to the cluster of bungalows; he squinted, then turned back toward me. “That’s where the musicians live.”

“So, the entire cast and crew live on-site?”

“No. Not everyone. Some department heads are scattered around the area. I bought a few small bungalows around Smallwood and Sackett Lake to house them during the summer. This way I can attract top talent from around the country.” He cleared his throat. “Now that I’ve given you the lay of the land, I would appreciate you telling me who has been murdered.”

“I’ve already told you more than I should have. Now, I suggest you tell your cast and crew to cooperate.” I leaned forward, lifting my heels slightly off the ground. “In fact, the more you cooperate with me, the more I will cooperate with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Malcolm whipped open his umbrella and stormed away just as a crack of lightning lit up the gray midmorning sky.

333

TO SHIELD our witness from the rain, Sally had escorted Jean Cranmore, the costume director, to the gift shop—a one-story stand-alone building about forty feet from the theater’s side exit door. Sally had asked Malcolm to unlock it when he arrived on scene so CSI could do a sweep of the place. When given the all-clear, Sally asked Jean to wait in there.

A tinkle announced my entrance. Jean was seated on a stool among the Monticello Playhouse-branded mugs, T-shirts, keychains, refrigerator magnets and other touristy tchotchkes. I quickly scanned the shop for stained-glass peace sign necklaces but saw nothing of the sort.

“How are you holding up?” I looked around for another stool or chair, but there was none, so I leaned against the glass counter.

She sniffled and ran her sleeve across her nose. Her eyelashes were moist and mascara smudges lined the area beneath her eyes. She inhaled deeply, then let out a long breath.

“Just want to confirm that the man you saw in the theater is the director, Adam Kincaid?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Even with the way he looked”—she shivered, then wrapped her arms tightly around her torso—“I could tell it was Adam.”

“Right now you’re the only one who knows. And until we reach his next of kin, I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself.”

“But they are going to ask me. The cast. They’re waiting for me. They’re going to badger me.” She fingered the small cross that hung around her neck. “What do I say?”

“I can take you to a motel if you’d like. Adam Kincaid’s parents live about fifty miles from here. I’ll be talking to them this afternoon.”

She nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”

“Tell me about this morning. What were you doing in the theater that early?”

A tear slipped down her cheek, which she swatted away when it hit her chin. She cocked her head, closed her eyes for a few seconds, then snapped them open. “I usually don’t get up early, but with the show opening tonight, I wanted to get a jump on things. There were a few costumes that needed adjustments. Some issues with fitting were brought up during the tech rehearsal last night, and Nathan was livid.”

“Nathan?”

“Nathan Fowler. Our production manager.” She shivered, perhaps still feeling stung by his wrath. Or maybe it was the air-conditioning.

“Is Nathan easily angered?”

“Not really. He’s just a stickler for detail.” She frowned. “He makes his displeasure known.”

“How did you get into the theater this morning?”

“I have a key to the side door nearest the dorms.”

“So the door was locked?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone enter or exit the theater before you went in?”

She looked down at her lap and gently shook her head. “Tech rehearsal ran late so I imagine most people slept in this morning.”

“How late?”

“We wrapped at one in the morning. I left the theater shortly after that and went straight to bed. But a few people hung around.”

“Was Adam Kincaid among those who hung around?”

“No. He actually left before me.” She ran her fingertips under her eyes, smudging the mascara residue. “He wasn’t well-liked. Adam.”

I glanced up from my notepad. “Yeah?”

“He was just . . . a tad intense. He could dress you down pretty severely if he wasn’t pleased with a scene. He was all about the play, not the camaraderie. Don’t get me wrong . . . he’s super talented. The aggravation is worth it when you see the final product.”

The

“Could you think of a reason why someone would kill him?”

She straightened up a bit and squinted. “Well, there is a rumor going around that Adam was having an affair with Malcom Slater’s girlfriend.”

“Shana Lowry?”

“The one and only. The star of our show.” She snorted derisively. “And she never let you forget it.” Jean gazed around the gift shop, making sure we were still alone. “Rumor has it, Adam just broke it off with her. And she was none too pleased.”

“Okay. Good to know. Anything else you can think of?”

She looked past me, gazing into space. When she turned back toward me, her eyes were glassy. “It’s just . . . I mean, the way he looked. That’s definitely some level of crazy. I can’t imagine anyone doing something like that to Adam. You would think things like this only happen in the city. But here? Never in my wildest dreams would I think that . . .”

I waited a few seconds for her sentence to resolve, but she just stared down at her clasped hands. When she finally looked up, she whispered, “You know what’s also weird? That necklace on his chest. I mean, he never wore jewelry. I couldn’t imagine him owning a gaudy piece like that.”

I didn’t realize Jean had gotten that close. “You saw that?”

She nodded. “Hard to miss.”

“So you don’t think it was Adam’s?”

She shrugged. “Well, I’ve never seen him wear it before.”

“Was it a prop?”

She touched her own necklace. “I don’t think so, but you can talk to Libby. Libby Wright. She’s the prop mistress.”

I scribbled down Libby’s name, along with a note to assign Sally the initial interview.

Then I asked Jean to follow me outside, where I handed her over to Sally to drive her to a motel.

333

JACK AND I headed west to the village of Hancock, New York— situated just east of the Pennsylvania border along the Delaware River—to break the news to Adam Kincaid’s parents, Jason and Lynn. A fifty-minute scenic drive along Route 17 West.

“Fucking bird crap on my car,” Jack snarled as he deployed the windshield wipers.

“Probably shouldn’t have parked under the trees,” I said as I rolled down the window and inhaled the pine scent of the evergreens. My ears popped as the car crested a hill.

Instead of using this time to reset the relationship with Jack, I slipped on my earbuds and listened to an episode of My Favorite Murder. He glanced at me once in a while but made no indication that he wanted to chat. I couldn’t tell if he was reticent by nature or deliberately being aloof. I knew I could’ve been the bigger person in this situation, strike up a conversation, but I ignored him.

At two on the dot we pulled into the driveway of 39 Millhouse Lane. There was no worse part of this job than telling next of kin that their loved one was gone, murdered. Jack insisted on taking lead on this, and I was fine conceding this particular task to him. I will be the first to admit, projecting sympathy does not come naturally to me. I can turn it on when I need to, but I’ve always sensed it coming across forced and stilted. When I say to a complete stranger, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” it rings hollow in my ears and tugs superficially on my heartstrings.

As we made our way up the brick walkway, I surveyed the Kincaids’ modest home. A split-level probably built in the sixties or seventies. Neatly trimmed rhododendron bushes, bursting with purple flowers, flanked the front door. A well-maintained front lawn sloped gently toward the sidewalk. No flower beds or decorative lawn ornaments. Tidy but devoid of personality.

The Summer of Love and Death

A knot formed in my stomach as I rang the doorbell. I glanced over at Jack, and he was slowly breathing in and out, cracking his neck, and shaking his arms, as though he was loosening up before taking his spot on a racetrack starting line.

Jason Kincaid opened the door. I glimpsed Lynn Kincaid leaning over the railing of the upper level. “Who is it?” she called out. When she made eye contact with the two strangers standing in her doorway, she scurried down the stairs to join her husband.

Jack displayed his shield. “I’m Detective Jack Tomelli and this is my partner, Detective Susan Ford. May we come in?”

Lynn spread her fingers out over her heart, and pressed gently. “Is it Adam? Did something happen to Adam?”

“If we can come inside?” Jack said gently.

They backed away slightly, but the entryway was too small for the four of us. Lynn retreated up the six steps to the upper landing, visibly shaking as she waited for the rest of us to join her there. A quick glance around revealed dated furniture in decent shape. The room tidy and comfortable with crocheted throws on the sofa and recliner. Glass trinkets sat atop doilies on the end tables.

Jack broke the news.

Their reactions were textbook.

Lynn collapsed to the floor like an imploding building, straight down. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, attempting to stifle the wails. But she eventually lowered her clenched hand to her lap and allowed her cries to fill the room. Jason Kincaid squatted next to her in an attempt to console her as she swayed back and forth. He eventually managed to take hold of her elbow and waist, lift her gently, and guide her to the couch. Jason repeatedly asked, “Are you sure it’s Adam?”

“Someone at the theater identified your son,” Jack said, as he maneuvered his way around the furniture to an armchair opposite the sofa.

There were no other seating options, so I stood to the right of Jack.

“Do you have a picture?” Jason draped his arm around Lynn’s shoulder; she buried her face in her hands. Her sobbing subsided into a soft whimper. “So we can be sure it’s him.”

Lynn lifted her head, her eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope that we might have gotten it wrong. That a photograph would prove otherwise. We had no intention of showing them a photograph of their dead son in his current condition, with makeup slathered all over his face.

“We’re sure it’s him,” Jack said gently. He leaned forward, his forearms rested on his thighs, his hands clasped. “However, we will need a next-of-kin positive identification from one of you. We can accompany you to the morgue now or we can set up a video feed, if you prefer.”

Jason and Lynn exchanged glances. Without verbally conferring, Jason said, “We’ll both go.”

Lynn rubbed her eyes, smudging her black mascara and eyeliner to the outskirts of her eyelids. “How?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why?” she whispered.

Jack tilted his head toward me, eyebrows raised, discreetly asking me how much we should disclose.

I jumped in to answer. “Until we have all the facts—”

“No! I want to know now.” Lynn rocked forward dislodging her husband’s arm from around her shoulder. “I need to know.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Ms. Kincaid. The cause of death is still under investigation. All we can tell you is that Adam was murdered at the Monticello Playhouse sometime between one o’clock and nine o’clock this morning. Detective Ford and I have made Adam’s case a top priority. We will leave no stone unturned. You have our word.”

As he spoke, Lynn shifted her gaze from Jack to me, to the photographs that hung on the wall just off my right shoulder.

I turned toward the annual family portraits—lined up in chronological order—along the wall leading to the bedroom level. In the first photo, a smiling baby boy sat on Lynn’s lap. In the second year, the

The Summer of Love and Death

boy was joined by a baby girl. By the fourth year, the girl was no longer in any of the pictures. I’m guessing this was their second heartbreak.

Jason must have noticed me eyeing the portraits. “Twice now,” he said. “No one should have to bury their children.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I gulped down a knot forming in my throat. This situation hitting me harder than usual. This family had seen its fair share of hard knocks and bad luck. Future holidays and birthdays fraught with reminders of what has been lost. No weddings. No family gatherings. No backyards filled with grandchildren and mischief. I thought of how truly lucky, even blessed I have been. No real heartaches. No tragedies. Dysfunction aplenty. But, I’ll take that over what these folks have endured.

Lynn pinched her lips into a thin line and shuddered. “Emily was only four. Leukemia. We do two good deeds and still get punished.” She started to weep. “If you’ll excuse me,” she croaked out before she launched off the sofa and ran up the four steps to the bedroom level. A few seconds later we heard a door close.

I turned to Jason. “What did she mean by ‘two good deeds’?”

Jason glimpsed the stairs, then back to me. “We adopted Emily and Adam. Lynn wanted Adam to have a baby sister. We thought about adopting again, but Lynn didn’t want to go through any more heartache. Not to mention, a few adoptions fell through before we got Adam, and I didn’t think she was up for the rigmarole of it all. I know I wasn’t.” He sighed.

We sat quietly for a few moments, then Jack got back to business. “We’ll need the address of Adam’s primary residence.”

Jason blinked a couple of times, as though mentally shifting gears in response to Jack’s request. “Um, Adam was in between apartments, so he was crashing here . . . in his old bedroom. But he hasn’t been here in weeks—he’s been living at the theater, in an apartment there.”

I glanced at Jack. “We’d like to take a quick look around his bedroom.”

“It’s the second door on the right,” Jason said, jutting his chin toward the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let Lynn know we’ll be leaving soon.”

Jack and I entered the small and tidy bedroom. The closet and dresser drawers were filled with men’s winter clothing. Definitely Adam’s, as the style was more suited to a millennial than a boomer. His summer clothes were probably in the playhouse apartment. I leafed through a few wire-bound notebooks filled with directing notes. Jack rummaged through the desk drawers. Nothing related to his murder jumped out at us during this cursory sweep. CSI would confiscate his possessions for closer inspection.

“Find anything?” Jason asked as we emerged from the bedroom. Lynn stood close to his side.

“Nothing obvious, but we’ll need you to stay out of that room until we can get someone out here to collect his things. Oh, almost forgot . . .” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the photograph I took of the stained-glass necklace. I held it up. “Is this Adam’s necklace?”

Jason pulled a pair of readers from his shirt pocket and stared at my phone for a few seconds. “If it is, I’ve never seen it before.”

“That’s not something Adam would wear. He was a conservative dresser.” Lynn tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

I hesitated, thinking how best to phrase the answer, then said, “It was found at the scene.”

Jason blinked rapidly, but could not prevent a few tears from escaping. “So it belonged to . . . to the person who killed my son?”

“We don’t know, Mr. Kincaid. It’s evidence. And we’d like to find its owner, that’s all.”

333

AS JACK pulled away from the curb, my phone dinged with a text message from Sally.

The Summer of Love and Death

Ron and I finished interviews. Check your email for my report.

I opened my email. “Sally sent over her interview notes.”

“And?” There was an edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before.

“And, you know the saying, ‘Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can. Seldom women have it, but never does a man.’ Give me a sec to pull it up.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced up at the rearview mirror, probably making sure the Kincaids were still tailing us. His energy was different. Maybe it was the encounter with the Kincaids. Maybe he didn’t like my quote about being impatient. I think we were both rattled, neither of us expecting to get an earful about another dead child.

I scanned Sally’s report. “Interesting. There are two sets of cast and crew that alternate throughout the summer season, a musical troupe and a drama troupe. The musical troupe just wrapped A Walk on the Moon and went to a party in Manhattan, which was arranged by Malcolm Slater. He chartered a bus and booked them a hotel. They will start rehearsals on Monday. Little Shop of Horrors.”

“So while one group is performing at night, the other group is rehearsing during the day?”

“Yeah. Which means all the musicians were also in the city the night of the murder. Each show runs for two weeks, starting on a Friday night and ending on a Thursday matinee. They also hold a matinee on the Wednesday of the second week.”

“So eight performances per week running for two weeks?” Jack let out a low whistle. “They sure do pack in a lot of performances over that two-week time frame. And I thought our job was grueling.”

I spun the knob on the radio to lower the volume. “First piece of business when we get back is to confirm that everyone who said they went to the city actually went to the city. I can put Ron on that. Unfortunately, that still leaves us the entire cast and crew of Orient Express to clear.”

“Maybe they all did it, like in the book. Life imitating art.”

“That’s one heck of a theory you got there, Inspector Poirot.” I wasn’t ready to entertain the possibility that we had more than one sicko on our hands.

“Just saying it feels a bit like a reenactment.”

That thought crossed my mind as well, but it felt too premature to start theorizing. That might be his style, but it wasn’t mine. I let the evidence tell the story.

And the evidence had yet to tell me this was a reenactment of the plot of the play they were all performing. That seemed incredibly farfetched. And even a bit too on the nose. I closed my eyes in an attempt to stave off an impending headache.

My phone pinged again. Another message from Sally. I read aloud to Jack.

“CSI swept through Adam’s apartment. Retrieved phone from the nightstand. There’s also a laptop.”

“Phone on nightstand tells me he left his place in a hurry,” Jack said.

“Maybe. It’s also possible he was just groggy.”

This morning I woke up thinking Ray’s anniversary tribute to his parents would be the most thrilling part of the day. But this bizarre murder and a less-than-auspicious start to a new partnership had upstaged Ray’s get-together.

The swish of the Volvo’s windshield wipers abruptly stopped and I cracked open my eyes. The clouds were dissipating and the sun was inching toward a clear patch of blue.

I leaned my head against the headrest, searching for my own patch of blue sky. The bright side: Ray’s planned gathering of friends and family could be just the antidote needed to counter this awful day. Clear the old noggin, because tomorrow was going to be equally brutal—questioning a bunch of temperamental actors who had the skills to deceive us.

333

THE SUN was setting as I ascended the knoll to the Woodstock monument—a gray rectangular slab of concrete featuring a raised sculpture mimicking the dove with the guitar and fingers from the poster, and two bronze plaques with the names of all the bands that performed. Concrete benches flanked the monument on either side. I spotted Ray chatting with his mother’s best friend, Phoebe, and her husband, Paul. A quick headcount put the crowd at sixteen. I was a bit surprised to see my parents in the mix.

As I sidled up to Ray, he smiled and whispered in my ear: “Glad you could make it.”

I slapped him playfully on the arm. “Sorry I’m late. Had to stick around the morgue until the Kincaids left.”

He kissed me on the cheek, then turned to face the group. “Okay, everyone gather around,” Ray shouted, as he moved closer to the monument. “As you all know, today would have been my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. And I appreciate y’all coming out on this drizzly night to honor and toast their enduring love.” He flashed me a mischievous grin and a conspiratorial wink. “But that’s not the only reason why I called you all here this evening.”

Ray suddenly dropped to his knee. Then gazed up at me. “Susan, will you marry me?” He unfurled his fist, revealing a little black box in the palm of his left hand. He lifted the lid.

Wasn’t expecting this. Nope. Not in a million years. I stood stockstill. But my heart was racing like a son of a gun. A fiery sensation burned in my lungs, then started radiating outward. That’s good, right? My brain was about two steps behind my emotions. I couldn’t speak. I stammered, tried to say something, then I thought, Wait, is this some kind of Candid Camera stunt? I glanced around. But everyone was smiling, definitely in on whatever Ray had cooked up. Dad had the biggest grin on his face.

Even Mom cracked a rare smile.

I turned away from Mom and leaned over to inspect the contents of the velvet box. A square-cut sapphire ring stared back at me. Ray’s father gave that ring to his mother on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. “Uh, yes?” I found Ray’s eyes. “Um, I mean, yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Ray jumped up, nearly bowling me over. He wrapped his arms around me, squeezing tight like a boa constrictor and lifting me slightly off the ground. He laughed as he released me, his eyes glassy and bright.

“So, you gonna do the honors?” I said, holding out my left hand. He plucked the ring out of the velvet box and slipped it on my finger.

I admired it for a moment, then grabbed Ray’s collar and kissed him. Our embrace was interrupted when everyone rushed toward me.

“Mazel tov,” Paul yelled. “It’s about time!”

The fiery sensation that ripped through my lungs earlier had now settled comfortably into my chest. And that warmth more than made up for my shitty day.

333

A FEW moments later I steered Dad away from the revelers toward the open field. “So you knew about this?”

“We all did. Ray may act all tough and shit, but he’s a romantic.” Dad peered over my shoulder. “You got a good one there.”

“I have to say, I’m oddly excited. Getting married at fifty-four, who woulda thunk.” I held up my left hand and stared at the ring. “Just don’t want to ruin what we have. I know that’s silly, seeing nothing will change, but still.”

“Look, I’m not one to give advice about marriage, but I know a good thing when I see it. Under that exterior of yours I can tell you’re

as giddy as a, well, a younger bride-to-be. So, tie the knot. Make it official. Besides, you’ll get a better tax break. And his social security benefits and pension when he kicks the bucket.”

“Jeez Dad. That’s morbid.” As that word tumbled out of my mouth, I sucked in my breath as today’s grisly events crept into my brain. I was hoping this joyous moment would override it, momentarily erase what I had witnessed at the theater. I knew what Ray would say: leave it at the precinct doorstep. It always amazed me how well Ray compartmentalized, while I perseverated about my cases after clocking out—my professional and personal life bleeding into one another like a watercolor painting. Without the capacity (or willingness) to just let it go, I turned to Dad and said, “The murder scene I attended today was like something out of a bad B movie. The guy’s ankles and wrists tied with coarse rope. Naked.”

Dad grunted. “I’ve seen worse.” He started walking further into the field, so I fell in step with him.

“The murder victim’s face was covered in makeup. Caked on like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”

Dad stopped abruptly and spun toward me, his earlier plastered-on smile replaced with a twisted grimace. “Was he smothered with a pillow?”

“Um, yeah.”

He pointed to the ground. “Was the pillow at the feet of the victim?”

Bells were going off in my head. And they were not wedding bells. “Who told you about this?”

Dad started pacing. He ran his hands through his mane of gray hair, forcing it to stand on end. Couple that with the wild look in his eye and he looked like a caged tiger ready to take out whoever got in the cage with him. “That’s the MO of Mac Gardner. Ankles and wrists tied with rope. Naked on a bed. Caked makeup on the face. Pillow placed at victim’s feet.” Dad stopped pacing and rubbed the back of his

neck as though tamping down raised hairs. “Susan, it was my first case working as a detective in the summer of 1969.”

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed, although the words got caught in the back of my windpipe and escaped as a hoarse whisper. I coughed into my fist to clear my throat, and my head. “Was there a stained-glass peace sign necklace placed on your victim’s chest?”

“Peace sign necklace?” Dad scratched the side of his forehead. His head started bobbing up and down. “Yeah, yeah. But not stained glass. Carved out of wood, dangling on a leather cord.”

Maybe Jack was right about this being a reenactment. Except for one detail: this murder was not a reenactment of the play but a reenactment of a fifty-year-old murder. “What else do you remember?”

“I’m a little fuzzy on the details.” Dad poked at the dirt with the tip of his right loafer. “There were three murders with the same MO.”

“Wait. There was more than one murder? Are you saying this guy was a serial killer?”

“Yeah. The victim in our jurisdiction was a guy named Sam Blackstone. He was a waiter at one of the hotels. His wife’s name was either Ellen or Helen. They had two, maybe three kids.” Dad scratched his chin. “I might not remember the details, but I sure as heck remember how my partner Jimmy solved the case.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Jimmy was hailed a hero after quickly piecing together the evidence that led to the arrest of Mac Gardner,” Will began. “The dominoes started falling when Jimmy recalled a newspaper article about a similar murder a month earlier up in Kingston. He then called around to the surrounding counties and got wind of a similar murder in Ellenville, confirming his suspicions that we were dealing with a psycho.”

“So, three look-alike murders over a three-month period?”

“Yeah. And I even remember the victims’ names and the dates they were murdered . . . that, somehow, got etched in my brain.” Will raised his hand and ticked off his fingers. “Sam Blackstone on July

The Summer of Love and Death

fifth in Monticello. Robert Sherman on June seventh in Kingston. And Kenneth Waterman on May second in Ellenville. All male victims in their early twenties.”

“Shit. So, how did Jimmy figure out it was Mac Gardner?”

“Well, a little bit of luck helped him nab the killer. A fingerprint left at the Kingston crime scene matched an old arrest record in Ellenville. From there it was easy to locate Mac Gardner. Lived in Liberty with his wife and daughter. He was a truck driver for a commercial bakery that supplied bagels, bread, and other baked goods to half the hotels in the region.” Will sighed. “I remember meeting Jimmy in a diner the day we went to interview Mac’s wife like it was yesterday.”

“Yeah? What made that so memorable?”

“It was the day after the Apollo 11 moon landing and there was just this sense of promise and progress in the air. Like the world was a better place.” Will guffawed. “And that son-of-a-bitch ruined it.”

Available now, wherever books are sold.

DETECTIVE SUSAN FORD AND HER NEW PARTNER,

Detective Jack Tomelli, are called to a crime scene at the local summer stock theater where they find the director of Murder on the Orient Express gruesomely murdered—naked, face caked in makeup, pillow at his feet, wrists and ankles bound by rope. When Susan describes the murder to her dad, retired detective Will Ford, he recognizes the MO of a 1969 serial killer . . . a case he worked fifty years ago. Will remembers a lot of things about that summer . . . the Woodstock Festival, the Apollo 11 moon landing, the Miracle Mets . . . yet he is fuzzy on the details of the decades-old case. But when Susan and Jack discover the old case files, his memories start trickling back. And with each old and new clue, Susan, Jack, and Will must narrow down the pool of suspects before the killer strikes again.

In the Ford Family Mystery series,cold and current cases collide when Detective Susan Ford teams up with her father, retired DetectiveWill Ford,to solve small-town murders.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Photography: GWImages

Never Forget.

Memory is Copeland-Stark’s business. Yet after months of reconsolidation treatments at their sleek new flagship facility, Hope Nakano still has no idea what happened to her lost year, or the life she was just beginning to build with her one great love. Each procedure surfaces fragmented clues which erode Hope’s trust in her own memories, especially the ones of Luke. As inconsistencies mount, her search for answers reveals a much larger secret Copeland-Stark is determined to protect.

But everyone has secrets, including Hope.

“Steeped in paranoia and delightfully playful with the concept of reality, The Mechanics of Memory is wildly entertaining and, ironically, quite unforgettable.” Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of The Father She Went to Find

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310399 | $28.99 | Releases 8/27/2024

Audrey Lee started writing fiction at the young age of eleven, when she and her best friend co-authored a masterpiece about gallivanting around London with the members of Depeche Mode, Wham!, and Duran Duran. Unfortunately, these spiral notebooks have yet to find a publisher evolved enough to understand the genius buried within. As a result, The Mechanics of Memory is her first work of published fiction.

Audrey lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, son, and Maltipoo, Luna. She spends her free time compulsively organizing and cheering for the Golden State Warriors with a dirty martini in hand.

THE MECHANICS OF MEMORY

AUDREY LEE

THE MECHANICS OF MEMORY

THE MECHANICS OF MEMORY

AUDREY LEE

AUDREY LEE

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Audrey Lee

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310399

Paperback ISBN 9780744310412

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310450

eBook ISBN 9780744310436

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310474

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by Hordieiev Roman, Sarmdy, Anhelina Lisna, Olga Ubirailo

5 3 1 2 4

to sam and rebeca

Who despite knowing all my stories still manage to love me unconditionally.

ggg

I do believe you think what now you speak, But what we do determine, oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

—William

Shakespeare, Hamlet

ONE YEAR AGO

“Come with me,” Luke said. “Before it all disappears.” He leaned across the kitchen counter and pushed at the lid of her laptop.

Hope swiveled in the turquoise kitchen stool, feet hooked in the rungs. Luke moved through the sliding glass door and onto the tiny patch of uneven concrete in the backyard, black Nikon hanging from a worn leather strap off his right shoulder. Hope watched as he pointed the camera at the sunset, then turned to aim the lens into the house.

“Don’t.” Hope covered her face with a laugh. “Yuck.”

“Then get over here.” He waved at her. “It’s magnificent.”

Hope slid off the stool, grabbing two lowballs and a bottle of single malt from the counter.

The desert sunset was spectacular. Shimmering sheets of fuchsia and amethyst were splashed across the scarlet sky, palm trees and rough mountain peaks silhouetted against it. And above their outline,

Audrey Lee

a moon so luminous it may well have been dipped in gold, hung lower than seemed possible.

Without meaning to, Hope reached out to touch the moon.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he said.

She smiled. “You did.”

Luke snapped more photos, from every conceivable angle and with every possible lens attachment. He paced the length of the yard, barefoot, camera case knocking against his hip.

“So antsy,” Hope said, depositing glasses on the end table and climbing onto the lounger.

“Stay just like that,” he said. He pointed the Nikon at her, shutter clicking like gunfire.

“You could simply enjoy the sunset, you know,” Hope said. “We could enjoy it together.”

Luke set the camera on the table and reached for the bottle. The Macallan sounded a hollow pop of anticipation as it opened.

Hope swung her legs over his as he handed her a glass and settled in. Her toenails were painted dark blue this week, fresh from a pedicure with Charlotte this morning. Luke didn’t care for her nail polish choices, especially when she went blue. Corpse toes, he called them.

“Tomorrow you’ll be a big TV star. Are you nervous?”

Luke sipped his scotch. “Maybe.”

“Is it because Natasha Chan is the host?” Hope asked. “And your thing for Asian ladies?”

“So now I have a thing?” Luke laughed, his hand trailing through her long hair. “You were supposed to be meek and submissive. I was grossly misled.”

“At least I’m good at math,” she said. “I’ll try to work on the meek part.”

“Good luck,” Luke said. “And it’s not because of Natasha Chan, it’s because I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of all six viewers.”

“I’m sure you’ll have at least seven,” Hope said, laughing. “Plus, you’re brilliant and amazing. And a published author. It’s very sexy.”

“Nerdy science books don’t count as sexy,” he said. “And you forgot devilishly handsome.”

“I’ll never forget.” She closed her eyes, focused on the feel of his fingers. “Don’t ask her to say something in Chinese, though. Total turnoff.”

“Damn, that was my opener,” Luke said, tracing her earlobe with his thumb. “After the ribbon cutting at the new facility today, Jack hinted this could mean a big promotion.”

Hope opened her eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Luke shrugged. “It’s the next logical step.”

“I know.” Hope sipped slowly. “Just—be careful what you wish for.”

Luke pulled her close and Hope breathed him in, fingernails tapping on the glass. They made a tinkling sound, like bells.

“Let’s run away instead,” she said, picking a leaf from his hair. “Scrap it all and establish a new land. Become rulers of our own destiny.”

“Is this before or after we become dealers in Vegas?” Luke’s mouth twitched. “Or start an ostrich farm? Or open a kabob restaurant called Shish for Brains?”

“It has to be mutually exclusive?” Hope laughed.

“Where should we start this new land?” Luke took her hand, pressing his lips against her palm. “Also, we’re going to need something catchier than New Land.”

Hope closed her eyes. “The Bahamas, of course.”

“Of course. And how will we pay the bills?”

“We won’t need money,” Hope insisted, “because we’ll be in charge of the New Land. To be renamed later. But if you must, we can open a waffle stand.”

“I do make a damn fine waffle,” Luke said.

“We’ll call it the Waffle Brothel.” Hope twined her legs together like a pretzel. She trailed a finger up his arm, just to the elbow, then back again.

“Horrendous,” he murmured. “You’re making it hard for me to concentrate.”

“We could live in a lighthouse.” Hope stilled her finger on his wrist. “And have kangaroos.”

“You’re like a kindergartener on an acid trip sometimes,” Luke said. “Kangaroos aren’t even native to the Bahamas.”

“Kangaroos are evolutionarily perfect,” Hope said. “They have built-in pockets. It’s genius.”

Luke smiled. “Then we’ll import them. And build a kangaroo sanctuary on the beach. So we can see them from the lighthouse.”

He lay back and Hope matched her gaze with his, to the endless universe spread above. The red had all but disappeared, and the moon glowed even brighter in the darkening sky. A scattering of stars emerged, blinking at them like jewels.

“Given your exhaustive attention to detail, it sounds like a solid Plan B.” He placed a hand on her thigh, a lazy, casual gesture Hope felt far beneath the layers of her skin. “I’m in.”

“Promise?” Her voice held the barest tremor, almost imperceptible. Imperceptible to anyone but Luke.

He held his face level with hers. Sometimes they shared these glances, moments of razor-edged intimacy. Moments when they were the only souls of consequence, raw and infinite, a singularity. Moments when Hope wanted nothing more than to be swallowed whole, by Luke and by whatever lay within.

Hope broke the connection, bottom lip in her teeth. Then a grin appeared, and she held her pinky in front of his face. “Promise?” she asked again.

Luke burst out laughing. “A pinky promise? You really are five.” But he hooked his pinky into hers, and with his other hand, pulled

her on top of him. “I’m sold,” he said into her hair. “Waffles in the Bahamas it is.”

Hope closed her eyes as she kissed him. Maybe they could.

ggg

Hope’s phone vibrated on the nightstand, rattling the jewelry she’d dropped there a few hours before. She typed a hurried response and activated her phone’s flashlight, leaving the bed and padding quietly to the bedroom door. As her hand touched the doorknob, Luke’s voice cut across the silence.

“Sucker.” He was propped up on one elbow, face sleepy and amused. “You know she only calls because of the French fries.”

Hope smiled, moving back to his side of the bed. “I don’t mind,” she said, placing her palm on his bare chest. “She’ll have her license soon. And then college. There isn’t much time left.”

Luke’s face softened. “You want me to go too?” He yawned, mouth open wide like a bear.

“No way.” Hope touched his cheek. “You’ll ruin girl time.”

At the door, she paused to tap a small white picture frame mounted above the light switch, twice. For luck.

“She has you wrapped around her finger, you know,” Luke called. “I know.” Hope blew him a kiss. “So does her dad.”

ggg

“She doesn’t get me at all,” Charlotte said, popping a piece of gum in her mouth. “If I tell her anything, she uses it against me. I have no privacy.” She let out a long, theatrical sigh, punctuated with maximum adolescent exasperation.

“It’s a scary world out there.” Hope glanced in the rearview mirror and changed lanes. “All parents want to protect their kids.”

“You don’t know my mom. And I don’t need protection.” Charlotte cranked the air-conditioning and tapped her blue fingernails on the dash. “Were your parents like that? Nosy?”

“We didn’t exactly have open lines of communication.” Hope turned down the air. “If it wasn’t about getting into Harvard or becoming a lawyer, it wasn’t discussed.”

“So you were a big disappointment,” Charlotte said.

“You have no idea,” Hope said.

“Can you help me with my essay on Hamlet?” Charlotte asked. “It’s due Tuesday.”

“Of course,” Hope said, pulling into the parking lot of the Burger Shack. It was the only place open all night, thus the de facto home to anyone within a twenty-mile radius who was hungry or high, or both.

Charlotte called it the Stoner Shack, but even so, she couldn’t deny their chili cheese fries were transcendental.

Years ago it had been a kitschy fifties diner, but today the only remnants of the former Shake, Rattle, and Roll were the defunct jukeboxes welded to the tables.

They stepped from the car, Hope locking it with a beep and a flash of headlights. Charlotte led the way across the pavement, walking in a wide circle to avoid a kid throwing up in the bushes.

“I wish she was more like you,” Charlotte said, holding the Stoner Shack door open for Hope. “Relaxed.”

“I’m far from relaxed,” Hope said. “I have the luxury of not being your parent. I just get to be your friend.”

“Aww,” Charlotte held her right hand out, fingers and thumb curled into half a heart. Hope matched it with her left.

ggg

Their plastic cups were nearly empty, though the silver tumbler on the sticky laminate table held more Oreo shake. The plate between

Hope and Charlotte contained only a few soggy fries, a generous pile of chili and cheese, and a puddle of ketchup.

“Straight out of the fryer,” Charlotte said, returning to the booth. She set a fresh basket of fries between them, spots of grease soaking through the paper lining.

“Perfect timing,” Hope said. She ran a fry in a zigzag through the chili and ketchup.

“Oh no, now you’re doing it too?” Charlotte said.

Hope tilted her head. “Doing what?”

“Making patterns with your food, like Dad.” Charlotte made a face. “Is that a two?”

Hope studied the paper plate. “I never realized I did that.”

“You guys already share one brain. And the looks . . .” Charlotte mimed gagging. “You act like you’re my age. Cringe.”

A gaggle of boys entered, calling loudly to each other and jockeying for position at the counter. One was the kid formerly puking by the entrance, but he looked recovered. Another peeled off from the clump, pausing by Hope and Charlotte on his walk to commandeer a booth.

“What’s up, Charlie?” he said shyly.

Charlotte’s cheeks reddened, and she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Hey.”

“I thought you’d be at Brody’s tonight.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. The kids around here usually had two distinct auras— money or no money—but Hope couldn’t tell with this one. He didn’t have an air of entitlement, but he didn’t seem like a townie either.

Charlotte crumpled her napkin into a ball. “I had to study. We can’t all be gifted like you.”

“I can help you tomorrow.” The boy glanced over his shoulder at the crowd filling their sodas. “I mean, if you want. If you’re not busy.”

Charlotte flipped her hair. “I’m not busy.”

Hope pulled on her straw noisily.

“I’ll hit you up tomorrow.” The boy backed away with a wave.

Audrey Lee

“What happened to Adam?” Hope asked.

Charlotte tapped her nails on the table. “He turned out to be a dick.”

Hope made a noncommittal noise.

“Don’t be all, ‘hmmm, that’s interesting,’” Charlotte said. “I know you guys hated him.”

Hope tried to keep a straight face. Luke wasn’t even able to say his name most days, referring to Adam only as “that arrogant little prick.”

“But you were both right.” Charlotte put her chin in her hands. “Did you ever date an asshole?”

Hope nodded. “Almost married one.”

Charlotte perked up, looking intrigued, but Hope tilted her head toward the boy. “So, is he a prospect?”

“He’s smart. He’s different than the boys at my school.” She grinned. “But don’t tell my dad. He’ll get totally triggered.”

“Look Charlie, you’re the most important person in the world to him,” Hope said. “Which means no one will ever be good enough for you. But it also makes you lucky to be so loved.”

“I know.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. Again. “I’m just tired of the Adams of the world.”

“Me too,” Hope said. “But there are good guys out there too. They just aren’t as easy to spot. Trust me: the good ones are worth it.”

“And that’s my dad? One of the good ones?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose, still too cool for feelings, though her eyes looked wistful.

Hope smiled. “I’m certain of it.”

TODAY

DON’T LOOK BACK

ggg

HOPE

The Wilder Sanctuary

Rancho Mirage, California

“And how are the nightmares?”

“Fine.” Hope shifted, pushing stringy hair from her face with her palms. “I haven’t had any this week.”

“None at all?”

Hope shook her head slowly, face impassive.

“That’s important progress.” Dr. Stark looked impressed with his own abilities, as if he’d performed a special magic trick to protect Hope from herself. Perhaps in a way he had.

Dr. Stark jotted notes on his tablet with a pointy gray stylus. “Are you sleeping any better?”

“A little. An hour or two at a time.” It was a lie. She hadn’t slept at all.

Hope focused on the San Jacinto Mountains outside the picture window, framed by the endless blue of the summer sky. Desert sky. It was hard to think about darkness right now, with so much light around her. “Does that mean I’m getting better?”

“As we’ve discussed, it’s important you get concentrated stretches of sleep.” Dr. Stark flipped his tablet to expose the keyboard, typing with a renewed purpose. “It will help you make progress in the Labyrinth.”

The word Labyrinth filled Hope with a viscous dread. She knew she’d visited it dozens of times since arriving at Wilder, though never remembered what had happened there. “I told you I’m never going back.”

“You did,” Dr. Stark said. “But as I said, it’s important to try and push through. It helps you confront what you’re avoiding.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Hope said. Another lie.

“I’m increasing your temazepam to thirty milligrams,” Dr. Stark said. “And tomorrow evening I’d like you to spend some time in ViCTR using the Erleben device. Say, forty-five minutes?”

Hope glanced at the ceiling. She wanted a cigarette in the worst way.

“Great,” he said. “Check in with the pharmacy after our session.”

Stark was doing the casual Friday thing that day, though Hope remained uncertain if it was, in fact, Friday. He resembled a prep school student, with his shiny polo shirt and immaculately pressed chinos. The polo looked brand new, still creased in the sleeves and too white, almost blinding. Hope couldn’t picture Dr. Stark performing the tasks of mere mortals: changing the toilet paper, taking out the garbage, shopping for polo shirts. Maybe his wife did all that. Maybe she bought five polo shirts in different colors from Neiman Marcus, hanging them in an orderly row, next to his dry-cleaned Italian suits in clear plastic bags.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Dr. Stark asked, still typing, fingers thin and bare.

“Are you married?”

“Divorced,” he said. “More thoughts about last year, perhaps?”

“Nothing else,” Hope said. She glanced outside again. “Have there been any messages for me?”

“I’m sorry.” Stark shook his head. “But I promise to let you know if there ever are.”

An artificial chime reverberated through the room’s speakers, and Dr. Stark smiled. “We’ll pick up again next week.”

Hope wiped her hands on her pants and rose, heading for the shiny glass door.

“Hope,” Dr. Stark said.

She paused, hand on the doorknob.

“Be well.”

“Be well, Dr. Stark.”

ggg

Hope lurked in the corridor outside the pharmacy door. Everyone here called it the Roofie Room. Dr. Stark discouraged the nickname, though she’d heard him use it when he didn’t think anyone was listening.

She leaned against a wall under a framed print. I Choose to Make the Rest of My Life the Best of My Life, the typeface commanded. Wilder was overrun with these platitude posters—inspirational phrases printed on backdrops of pink orchids, mountain scenes at sunrise, soft-focus tree branches with dappled green leaves. The one on Hope’s bedroom wall depicted a wooden plank bridge disappearing into the horizon. Don’t Look Back. You’re Not Going That Way. Graphically speaking, it was a minor improvement over the poster she remembered from seventh-grade English class, the one of a ginger kitten with huge eyes, suspended in a tree by its claws. Hang in There! in bubblegum-pink balloon letters.

The hallway loomed empty and silent, like all of Wilder. Staff believed in maintaining a serene, nurturing environment at all times, right down to the soothing smells pumped through the ducts. That day, the scent was a pungent eucalyptus.

Audrey Lee

Like any pharmacy, the Roofie Room had a high white counter serving as a barricade to a wall of shelves, each one boasting orderly containers of unlabeled amber bottles and plastic baggies full of pills.

Willy Wonka’s Pharmaceutical Factory.

Dr. Emerson appeared from behind the shelves, smiling when she noticed Hope skulking under another poster: Healing Begins with a Single Step. “How can I help you?”

“Dr. Stark changed one of my prescriptions.” Hope approached the doctor and craned her neck to see above the counter.

“He doubled your dosage.” Dr. Emerson moved her mouse, perfectly arched eyebrows knitting together. “To the maximum recommended.”

Hope shrugged. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”

Dr. Emerson removed a nonexistent piece of lint from her white coat. She smoothed her already perfect blond hair, pulled back from her face into a tight, sleek ponytail. Then the doctor launched into her spiel about the side effects and the short-term nature of the meds, how Hope shouldn’t do anything like operating heavy machinery or driving. How she should tell someone if she developed hyperaggressive tendencies or suicidal thoughts. Dr. Emerson sounded like the placid voice-over in a drug commercial. Erections may last more than twenty-four hours. Death may occur.

Hope smothered a snicker.

Dr. Emerson didn’t appear to appreciate being interrupted during her enumeration of drug interactions and contraindications. She resumed typing with bright pink fingernails and pursed lips. “You’ll have it tonight.”

Another chime sounded.

“Will you please give this to Spencer?” From her coat pocket, Dr. Emerson produced a box of chalk and handed it to Hope. “Also, tell him to come see me. I have a delivery from his mother.” Dr. Emerson tapped a manila envelope near her mouse.

“Do you want me to take that too?” Hope extended her hand.

“Absolutely not.” Dr. Emerson pulled the envelope away, as if Hope’s hand were a poisonous viper. Obviously chalk was the outer limit of what Hope could be trusted to courier.

“Have any messages come for me?” Hope asked.

Dr. Emerson made a show of clicking around her computer, though Hope already knew the answer. It was the same answer she’d received every week since she got to Wilder.

“I’m sorry, nothing today,” Dr. Emerson said. “Enjoy your dinner, Hope. Be well.”

As Hope turned to go, she heard Dr. Emerson repeat her name. Her tone was expectant, like a teacher whose class hadn’t responded with the proper good morning: fake cheer tinged with annoyance, an undertone of challenge.

Hope paused. “Be well, Dr. Emerson.”

ggg

The food was, as always, a gourmet affair. All meals at Wilder were perfectly prepared and stunningly plated, served on bone china at a table with a view. This place had a Michelin star under its belt, at least according to their website. Everything passing the residents’ lips was clean: nothing processed, no GMOs, all fresh and organic and assembled expertly by in-house chefs. Farm to nuthouse.

When Hope first arrived, she would have gladly slit someone’s throat for a corn dog and a Newcastle. After a month, the urge had mostly subsided. She now ate her whole grains and her sustainable wild salmon in balsamic reduction with little fuss. Unfortunately, there still wasn’t enough diazepam in the world to make a bed of braised kale pass for a corn dog.

Quinn placed a plate of shrimp on the table, chimichurri sauce sloshing over the side and forming green puddles on the wood. He

lowered himself into the seat next to Hope and ran his napkin along the rim of the dish. “What I wouldn’t give for a good Malbec to wash this down,” he said. “A 2004.”

Hope raised an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

Quinn speared his shrimp, cutting off the tails with deft fingers like a chef at Benihana. He carefully placed each tail, pointy side out, fanned along the edge of his plate. “Did you see the new recruit?”

A few tables away sat a man, much younger than they were, late twenties or early thirties maybe. He was tall and thin, with sandyblond hair and a face that somehow seemed honest. He stared out the window with a vacant expression behind his tortoiseshell glasses, fork suspended in hand over his untouched salad.

“His name’s Carter,” Quinn said. There were no last names at Wilder unless you were a doctor. Then there were no first names. “Silicon Valley startup guy. High-functioning depression, anger and aggression issues, panic attacks.” Quinn held thumb and forefinger close together. “And a touch of PTSD, of course.”

“How do you know shit like that?” Hope asked, squeezing a lemon into her infused water and taking a drink. Cucumber. The worst.

“I know all kinds of shit,” Quinn smirked.

Hope didn’t usually pay much attention to the revolving door of Wilder Weirdos, and even less to Quinn’s inventory of afflictions. But that night Hope couldn’t help but stare at Carter. He seemed familiar somehow, though unlike the many celebrities surrounding them.

“I feel like I’ve seen him before,” Hope said.

“Did you ever play that game Magic Words?” Quinn asked. “He invented it when he was a kid. It was all over the news for a few months.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Hope continued to stare, trying to remember. But the more she focused, the harder it became.

“I think he’s pretty too,” Quinn said. “Let’s go find out if he’s single. Be, you know, a supportive network of healing.” He cupped

his hand over his mouth. “We should bring him into the fold before someone else does.”

In a different life, in her life before Wilder, Hope never would have befriended Quinn. He would have run in an entirely different social strata, too beautiful and polished and wealthy for the likes of her. But here at Wilder, the serfs dined alongside the barons, and Quinn had sought her out and forced a friendship after mere hours, when she still wore the same expression Carter wore now.

“Jesus, we’re not in a gang. He doesn’t need to be jumped in.” Hope turned from Carter and pushed zucchini around on her plate, a little yellow boat sailing through the quinoa sea. “Go over there and introduce yourself if you want to get in his pants.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a giant buzzkill?” Quinn leaned back in his chair, tilting it at an alarming angle. He wore the standard Wilder Weirdo uniform: elastic cotton pants, a grey shortsleeved T-shirt, white sneakers without laces. Yet only Quinn could manage to make it look stylish. “In your old life, did you ever enjoy pushing the envelope a little?”

“Sorry,” Hope said. “I’ve never been a risk taker.”

ggg

After dinner, Hope knocked on Spencer’s door. Thanks to Quinn, everyone called him Spooky Spencer, and these days mostly just Spooky. He was the youngest of the residents, thin and slight, a curtain of jet black hair usually hiding his pale face. He didn’t speak when he first arrived two months ago, then only a few words, croaked out when spoken to. Spooky spent all his free time with his D&D magazines, hand-drawn maps, graph paper, and pencils spread out in front of him, murmuring about campaigns and hit points and initiatives.

Shortly after arriving, Spooky started drawing on the wall in his bedroom with a stub of a purple crayon he’d nicked from the Creative

Connections Room (surprisingly, a clever pejorative had yet to be assigned). Spooky drew a crescent moon in the top right corner of his wall, like that bald kid in the children’s books. No one could figure out how he climbed so high to reach, knowing he’d also have some kind of hell to pay for defacing the property. He’d probably be sentenced to three days of mandatory restorative yoga, or a week writing lines in the Zen Garden. Every day is a gift.

Surprisingly, Dr. Stark was delighted when he discovered the purple moon. He thought giving Spooky an outlet for his expression might help him connect with people. So Stark submitted a work order and had one wall of Spooky’s room painted with chalkboard paint. He even gave Spooky all the chalk he wanted. Now an elaborate white forest spread across half the ebony surface: bare, eight-foot aspen with sinister cuts in their bark, vines and thorns and brambles winding from floor to ceiling. A path began in the bottom left corner, splintering into several directions as creepy, nondescript animal eyes stared from hidden spots in the trees. Spooky called it the Shade.

Hope knocked again. She examined the box of chalk from Dr. Emerson, its bright green and yellow markings anachronistic against the muted tones of Wilder. The box reminded Hope of her father, who often returned from business trips with a box of crayons for her. It was always the big box of sixty-four, the one with the useless sharpener built in. Impractical purchases were rare in her family, and new crayons were a commodity. Hope would drop to the floor and dump the box onto the ground, smelling the wax and grouping the crayons by color, blunted tips lined up perfectly like a rainbow fence. They always seemed so full of promise.

After the third knock, Hope entered. Spooky was at his desk, watching the door.

“I didn’t see you at dinner,” Hope said, holding up the chalk. “But Dr. Emerson sent this for you. And she said to tell you there’s a message from your mom.”

His voice was too soft to hear. Maybe it was thank you. Or maybe it was fuck you. One could never tell with Spooky.

Hope set the chalk on his nightstand and looked at the Shade. Spooky’s chair creaked as he rose to stand nearer.

“Where does that go?” she asked, kneeling. She placed a bitten-down fingernail on the fork in the path, smudging it a little.

“Mirror Gate,” he said, inclining his head right. “And this goes to Hollow of the Moon.” He licked his pinky finger and wiped away the smudge.

“What happens there?” She moved closer to the path.

Spooky retrieved a stub of chalk from his desk to touch up the part she’d smudged. “It’s where the souls are collected and cleansed.” He added more detail to a birch tree along the road to Mirror Gate.

She wasn’t sure she had a soul anymore, but if she did, Hope wasn’t certain she wanted it cleansed. So much for connecting with people.  ggg

Back in her room, Hope reached far under her mattress for her notebook and pens. Her room was searched daily, including the spot under her bed and the corners of her closet. No expectation of privacy existed for anyone at Wilder, yet she still felt a compulsion to stash her few things away. It was also why she chose to write in code.

It wasn’t an elaborate, beautiful mind kind of code. For Luke’s last birthday, Hope bought secret decoder rings from a bookshop selling quirky trinkets. Two silver rings with the alphabet running around the bottom half, the top half spinning to reveal a number in a tiny window. Luke had laughed when he opened it, getting it instantly, slipping it on his finger and turning it around and around. For a time, they sent coded messages to each other, quickly discovering it took twice as long to write a note and ten times longer to decode it. Luke had even created a spreadsheet to make it faster. Eventually that exercise, along with so

many rituals and routines and secret languages preceding it, was abandoned. Yet in that brief stint, Hope had memorized the twenty-six pairs, and still repeated them in her head when she couldn’t sleep.

Now the coded numbers came quickly and fluidly, like a native tongue. Sometimes she caught herself thinking in the code too, rather than words: 1-26,18-4-23, 17-6-4-14.

It wouldn’t take a cryptographer to crack; it was the simplest of substitution ciphers. A third grader could do it. But she also figured no one cared enough to invest the time.

That night, Hope opened to a new page and recounted her day in simple, unpoetic prose. When writing in numbers, it was much easier to do it this way. No commentary, no feelings or emotions, just a list of the day. Dr. S. + 30 mg t. Yellow zucchini. The Labyrinth. She never revisited her writing, knowing that if she did, it would be unsettling to have forgotten.

She checked the time and flipped to the end of the notebook, to a different section. It was here she tried to recount her life before Wilder, where she tried to parse out her last year, where she wrote about Luke.

Hope wrote what she could, a paltry few lines. There simply wasn’t much to call forth from her lost year. Hope’s old life had revolved around empirical facts, a habit that was still deeply ingrained. But she had little certainty these days, and even less stock in her memories. As a result, this journal section had seen little progress over time.

The chime rang, presenting her with a few minutes before her meds arrived, preceding a night which would soon become thick and foggy. This was her most lucid time of the day, and in thirty minutes it would all fade into the ether. She glanced at the door out of habit even though she knew at least ninety seconds remained, then closed the notebook and stowed it safely under the mattress.

A tech, Jonah, shuffled his bulky frame into the room. Hope accepted the fluted paper cup holding two pills–one oblong and white,

one pale pink with a line through the middle, both small and both mighty. She knocked them back in one gulp, without water.

Hope opened her mouth and lifted her tongue, but Jonah never inspected. He didn’t get paid enough to give a shit. He merely bobbed his dark head, wished her well, and extinguished her overhead light. Soon the heaviness began to drag her into the abyss. Hope avoided sleep whenever possible but knew a fight against those fifteen additional milligrams would ultimately be futile. She felt her limbs go numb and braced for the inevitable nightmares.

But at least Luke would be there.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

Murder is juicier with a side of barbecue sauce.

Private Investigator Tori Swenson gets a strange accidental death case that looks like murder at one of her uncle’s driveins and decides it’s time to get revenge on her estranged family. Pretending to want a reunion, she appears at her uncle’s party to secretly investigate them. When her uncle suddenly dies, Tori’s case takes a sinister turn that makes her a suspect in her uncle’s death and the killer’s next target. To uncover who dethroned the barbecue king, Tori will have to face her own fiery demons while pursuing a killer who wants to make dead meat out of her.

“Jessica Jones meets Succession with a side of coleslaw, this is the kind of book you want to sink your teeth into and not let go. Laura Wetsel bursts onto the scene with a mouthwatering mystery that will have readers begging for more.” Moriah Richard, Writer’s Digest

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311211 | $29.99 | Releases 9/24/2024

Laura Wetsel holds bachelor’s degrees in Russian and English literature from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and a master’s degree in Russian literature from Northwestern University. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her two cats, Sasha and Ginny Wolf.

While this story is fictional, Burnt Ends was inspired by Laura’s uncle, who ran a successful burger drive-in chain in Ohio, as well as her experience living in Kansas City, Missouri.

BURNT ENDS

Laura

MURDER TASTES SWEETER WITH A SIDE OF BBQ SAUCE

Wetsel

A Mystery Laura Wetsel BURNT ENDS

A Mystery

Laura Wetsel BURNT ENDS A Mystery

BURNT ENDS

Laura Wetsel

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Laura Wetsel

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311211

Paperback ISBN 9780744311228

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744311242

eBook ISBN 9780744311235

Audiobook ISBN 9780744311259

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by Demianvs, Denys, pop_jop

FOR KANSAS CITY.

Chapter One

There it was—smoking meat, the sweet stench of my childhood. Hickory, molasses, tomato, brown sugar. Kansas City’s love letter to everyone but me.

Darnell, my best friend from our early rehab days, drove us into the parking lot of Rocky’s BBQ Smokehouse, and I gagged on the meat-thickened air. Don’t toss your waffles, Tori. The giant statue of Rocky the Pig— “Rocky the Cannibal”—smiled down at me in his chef hat and apron, holding a platter of ribs like he was trying to turn my stomach.

Darnell parked his truck with a displeased grunt. “Seriously, Tor,” he said, wiping the sweat from his bald head. “I said I’d help you move, not run a stakeout in a hundred degrees.”

“Don’t worry.” I took a gulp of Topo Chico to help settle my queasy gut. “My target should be here soon. Then you can help me move into my aunt’s place.” I twisted the zoom lens onto my digital camera and aimed it at a family tottering out of the restaurant with sauce-splattered shirts.

“Fine, then I’m running in for some brisket,” Darnell said. “At least, assuming they’ve got any with the meat drought they’ve been—”

“Hold up,” I cut him off and nodded at a green sedan rolling into the lot. “That’s her.” I pointed my lens at the driver’s door, getting ready to fire away. When a woman stepped out with crutches, I groaned.

“Guess she wasn’t lying.” Darnell shifted the car out of park. “The brisket will have to—” “Wait.”

Darnell hit the brakes, jerking us forward. “Now what?”

“I want to see if she uses them inside. It would be hard in a buffet line.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He raised his brows at me. “If you go in there with that huge camera, there’s no way she’s ditching her crutches.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking. I only knew to come here because my target’s sister posted this online.” I pulled out my phone to show Darnell the selfie post of Sasha Wolf with the caption, Waiting for @GinnyWolf. #RockysBBQ #SisterLove

“Okay,” Darnell said. “Am I supposed to be seeing something here?”

I tapped on Sasha’s photo, zooming in on her sunlit head. “See that sunlight shining on her ponytail?”

“Yeah, and?”

“She’s under an atrium, which means I’d have a great shot from the roof.”

“The roof? You’re not seriously thinking of climbing Rocky’s, are you?”

“Why not?” I said, tying my blonde curls into a fist of a ponytail. “You’ve seen me scale walls and trees before. I’m a nimble little freak.”

“I meant about trespassing.” Darnell pointed to his police badge like he might arrest me.

“You know us private eyes don’t have to follow your rules.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Just have a smoke, and I’ll be back before you’ve even put your butt out.”

“One cig, Tor,” Darnell warned, tapping a pack of Marlboro Lights on the face of his watch. “Otherwise, have fun moving by yourself.”

For a recovering addict, Darnell was a horrible liar. I knew he’d never abandon me, not for anything. Hanging my camera around my neck, I hopped out of the truck into the afternoon sun, where I already felt like I was sucking meat-flavored steam through a cocktail straw. I’d just have to deal with the nausea. I hustled toward the black and orange pavilion,

noting its unclimbable plastic siding and security cameras mounted at the entrance. Maybe I’d have better luck in the back.

I circled around and found luck in the form of a supply truck parked right beside the restaurant. No driver, no cameras, no people. This was my way to the roof.

I hoisted myself onto the hood and made my way up the windshield to the top of the truck. The gap between the truck and building was only two feet, so I made the easy jump. Soon as I hit the roof though, my phone started buzzing in my pocket. This wasn’t an ideal time to take calls, so I let it ring out while I got on my hands and knees to crawl toward the atrium.

When I got to the glass, I peered down below at a buffet hall where six dozen carnivores were dressed for the upcoming Fourth of July weekend and savagely stuffing their smeared, sticky faces with brisket, thighs, and ribs. My stomach surged at this familiar scene. I’d been avoiding the barbecue world for nearly fifteen years, and now that I was looking down on it like some floating deity, I remembered why I’d stayed away. Barbecue didn’t just upset my stomach. From my head to my chest to my teeth, it made me mad everywhere. But I didn’t want to think about why. Not after what I’d done last night.

As I searched the crowd of meat-eaters, I found Ginny, my target, at a table with her sister, her crutches against the wall. I raised my camera to my eye and focused on Ginny’s face. She was teasing Sasha, lifting her brows and puckering her lips, and as she stuck out her tongue, a memory flashed in my head—I was a fourteen-year-old again in an inflatable pool of barbecue sauce with my cousin Annie. My hands shook, releasing the camera, but I jolted my neck back before the camera hit the roof.

That memory was another reminder why I avoided meat, but it made sense why the past was on my mind when Annie was the reason I was on this stakeout. She’d filed her case to investigate Ms. Wolf with my agency yesterday afternoon.

I had no idea though who this Ginny Wolf was to Annie as I placed the burning hot camera back on my face and snapped pictures of Ginny, her

crutches, her gold pendant and butterfly tattoo, all material things identifying her.

When she stood up for the buffet, leaving her crutches behind, I videoed the fraudster walking free and easy without them. As I’d thought, another liar.

My evidence secured, I returned to the restaurant’s edge and jumped onto the supply truck. I wasn’t loud, but I must have made noise inside the truck because the driver’s door opened. When I saw who stepped out, I knew an apology wasn’t cutting it. This was the largest man I’d ever seen. Not only was he around seven feet tall with brisket-sized arms and an ugly blond bowl cut, his steely blue eyes were fixed on me like he wanted to rip out my throat.

“Hey,” his tuba voice bellowed. “You taking pictures of me?”

“No,” I said, but my answer didn’t put him at ease, because he jumped onto the hood to come after me. I didn’t think it wise trying to fight a guy triple my size, so I rolled to the back of the truck, caught its back edge, let myself dangle, and released my grip.

Soon as I hit the pavement, I sprinted.

I had a head start on the driver, but I’d only gone a few strides before I heard his monster feet slapping the ground behind me. Around my neck, my camera thumped against my chest. I tried calling out for Darnell, but the heat and the exertion started making me choke. Behind me, the slapping feet were only getting closer. You’re not gonna make it.

Just then, my ponytail got yanked, and I was thrown to the pavement. I tried pushing myself up fast, but a boot crushed down on my spine.

“Get off me,” I gasped.

I strained to push up again, but the heel only dug deeper between my shoulder blades, cutting off my breath.

“I’ll teach you not to spy on people,” the voice said, before my camera strap was snatched off my neck. “This is mine now. Better not see you here again.”

The boot then lifted, and the thug ran off.

I turned over. “Darnell,” I wheezed, choking to breathe.

Darnell heard me this time and opened his door. “Tori?” he called out. “Are you okay?” He ran over and helped me up.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, patting my chest.

Darnell’s lip curled in distress at my arm. “Damn, what happened?” I looked at where he was staring and saw my arm bleeding. Not the worst cut I’d had, maybe an inch long, but I could barely feel any pain. “That truck driver over there stole my camera.” I pointed at the giant, now on the other side of the lot. “I’m getting it back.”

As I took a step forward, Darnell grabbed me by the shoulders.

“I don’t think so,” he said, like he was my dad. “You see the size of that guy? You’re lucky he didn’t crush your skull.”

I tried to shake loose, but I was weak in Darnell’s grip. “Please,” I begged him, “my camera’s priceless.”

“Tor, your life’s priceless.” Darnell opened my door. “Now get in. I got something for your arm.” I obeyed and climbed inside where he wrapped my wound with paper towels. “That should help with the bleeding. Now you stay put while I charge that man with assault and theft.”

I cleared my throat with protest. “You can’t do that.”

“Excuse me?” Darnell’s eyebrow rose. “Why not?”

“I was trespassing. If you charge him, he’ll report me.”

“So what? He’s dangerous.” Darnell opened his door, and I grabbed his arm with my uninjured hand.

“Do it and I’ll lose my license.”

His eyes widened with fury as he sucked on his teeth. “The things I do for you.”

In case I didn’t know Darnell was mad, he slammed his door and peeled out of the parking lot so fast my backpack flew to the floor of the car, spilling open at my feet. I couldn’t blame him for getting angry about this situation when I was even angrier. As I bent over to gather my stuff, my seatbelt tight against my body, my teeth were grinding hard.

That asshole stole your camera.

Darnell lit his fifth cigarette of the hour, and my phone buzzed in my pocket again. This time I pulled it out to check. “Great,” I said. “My boss.”

“Good, you can tell him how your assignment almost got you killed by an ogre.”

I answered the call. “Hey Kev.”

“Hi Tori, got a minute?” Kevin said, sounding nervous or drunk. Or maybe drunk because he was nervous.

“Sure, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kevin lied. “We got a case request last night about an accidental death case. The widow’s saying it wasn’t an accident and specifically requested you, but I can give it to someone else if you’d still rather stick to fraud cases. Thought I’d ask you first.”

“Why is she asking for me?” I said, my stomach hardening for a punch, though I knew the answer to my own question.

“I think it has to do with your last name,” Kevin said. “Aren’t you related to Kansas City’s Favorite Uncle?” Hearing that nickname made me gag like I’d smelled bacon. “Tori?”

“Yeah, he’s my uncle.”

“Well, Luis Mendoza was a cook at the Uncle Charlie’s location in Leawood. His widow claims she’s getting death threats and that the police aren’t looking into it . . .” Kevin’s voice stirred beneath the buh-dump of my heartbeat. Turned out getting my camera stolen wasn’t the worst part of my day. I just needed to stop hearing about this case before I smashed something.

“Don’t want it,” I said, before hanging up and shoving the phone in my pocket. Darnell stayed quiet while I took staccato breaths. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

It wasn’t until we reached Victory House, the sober house I was leaving for my aunt’s, that Darnell turned to me and broke the silence. “So what did your boss say to get you so worked up?”

I was still in disbelief at my hysterical reaction that the words came out like I wasn’t the one saying them. “He asked if I wanted a case at Uncle Charlie’s.”

“Uncle Charlie’s? Man, good call turning that down. Your family’s your worst trigger, and you’ve only been sober two years.” Darnell reached into the back seat for a fresh Topo Chico, which, though warm, was still a Topo Chico. He handed me the bottle.

“Thanks,” I said. With the black bottle opener ring I wore on my thumb, I popped off the cap and started chugging down the prickly bubbles. It wasn’t a drug, but the sparkling water did calm me down.

“Was it about Luis Mendoza?” Darnell asked.

I nodded, while swallowing.

“I remember that case,” he said. “Memorial Day. Guy was on heroin, fell, hit his head, passed out in the cooker. Ruled an accident.”

I sipped the bottle with more restraint. “Sounds like his widow doesn’t agree with that story.”

“Denial’s the first stage of grief.” Darnell smashed his cigarette into the ashtray he’d taped to the dashboard. “Guess she’s stuck there.”

“Yeah, you don’t got to tell me about grief.”

“You know,” Darnell said, nodding at my bottle of water, “you shouldn’t drink that so fast. You’ll give yourself indigestion with all that carbonation.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my resources.” From my bag, I pulled out an orange bottle and pointed to the label for Naltrexone, my anti-narcotic prescription.

What Darnell didn’t realize, though, was that the pills inside weren’t Naltrexone. In fact, I’d stopped taking those a few months ago because they were making me too groggy to work. The pills I had were OxyContin, my opioid of choice, my gateway to heaven and hell.

Darnell gave me an incredulous glance. “That stuff treats heartburn too?”

“What can I say?” I chased down two oxies with a gulp of water. “It’s a miracle drug.”

As I chugged the bottle down to its bottom, my mind returned to Kevin’s call and what had happened last night. After I’d seen Annie’s case request, I got so upset I stole all the oxies from the girl next door and hit them

hard. Then my anger boiled over, and I looked up my treacherous family online, discovered Luis Mendoza’s suspicious death at the drive-in only a month ago, and saw an opportunity to finally get my revenge. That was why I submitted a case request to myself as Luis’s widow yesterday.

In that drug-induced euphoric state where I felt invincible, my big plan was to investigate Uncle Charlie and bring him down. Now that I was only mildly drugged-up, though, I saw the danger in my vision. Because even if my gut knew Luis didn’t die by accident, it also knew I couldn’t investigate the truth. Like Darnell always said, my family was my worst trigger. And seeing as I was already hiding my recent relapse from him and my aunt, I didn’t need to make my situation any worse.

Chapter Two

Ioffered to give darnell a hand moving my stuff into his truck, but he wouldn’t hear none of it. Not with my bloody arm. So I cooled off in the AC instead and rode the warm wave of those two oxies I’d taken while reassuring Rebus in his cat carrier. “Don’t worry, Reebs,” I told him in my mothering voice. “We’re going back to Aunt Kat’s. Remember? You grew up there as a kitten.”

But he didn’t care what I had to say. Instead, he scowled at me with his mismatched eyes—one yellow, one blue—and once we hit the road, his grumbling escalated to a growl that didn’t let up until Darnell pulled into the driveway of the canary yellow house with the dark purple door.

“Man.” Darnell blinked at the house. “Your aunt sure likes purple.”

“That’s an understatement,” I said.

I looked at the porch with its lilacs, dream catchers, and windchimes, and a lump formed in my throat. Though I visited Aunt Kat all the time, I hadn’t lived here since she took me in as an orphaned teenager. Now I was back, broke and desperate after Victory House gave me the boot for relapsing, and I had to make sure she never found that out. Otherwise, she’d definitely send me back to rehab, and I really didn’t need to go through that drama again. I was planning on resetting myself tonight, anyway, by throwing the rest of the pills down the toilet. I just wanted to escape myself a little while longer.

The purple door opened, and my purple-haired aunt hopped onto the porch in her paint-smattered smock. “Tori,” she shouted, waving her hands. “You and your friend can set your things on the porch. Nobody inside but you.”

I nodded, and she went back into the house.

“Sorry,” I said to Darnell. “She smokes weed all day for her back pain and gets paranoid around cops.”

“I get it, but you gonna be okay around her pot?”

“Yeah, never did like the smell.”

After Darnell unloaded my stuff on the porch and left, I took a seat on a box of books while the fan overhead tickled my neck hairs. This occasion called for another Topo Chico, and I reached over to grab a new one, popping its cap off with my thumb ring. It was one of those days when I might drink the whole crate.

“He gone?” Aunt Kat called out from behind the screen door.

“Yeah, you’re safe.”

Aunt Kat came out onto the porch barefoot, arms open and ready to squeeze me until her bloodshot eyes bulged at my arm gash. “Holy cow, you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, but I think it’s stopped.” I patted the blood-soaked wad of paper towels. “Took a spill moving stuff.”

“You need to disinfect that immediately.”

“Probably.”

I downed the rest of my water and picked up Rebus in his carrier to follow my spindly aunt into the lavender living room stinking of citrus skunk. When I unlocked the cat cage, Rebus darted under the plum couch to cry. Aunt Kat dropped to the ground to comfort him.

“Poor kitty,” she said, tapping the hardwood floor with her violet nails. “I’ve got some grass-fed raw beef, if that’ll cheer him up.”

“Nah, he’ll be on a hunger strike until he feels like hunting.”

“Well, he’s not going outside while he’s a guest in this house. I don’t want him bringing any of those pests in here like he used to do.”

“He can’t go outside anyway right now since he’d only run back to Victory House.”

“Right.” Aunt Kat gave a nod. “Cats do have that homing instinct, don’t they?”

I looked around the living room to see if anything had changed. There was the purple couch, the purple rug, the purple table with the purple pipe, vape, and bong. But the display case was empty, meaning my aunt’s American Girl doll collection was missing. Guess I couldn’t be too offended she’d hidden them when I’d appeared on her doorstep with only one day’s notice—and I had actually relapsed. I’d told her Victory House wanted me out because they needed my room for someone else and thought I was ready to be on my own. Clearly, Aunt Kat suspected I could be lying.

“Is that supposed to be a Scottish cow?” I gestured to her new painting of a long-horned, shaggy cow in a kilt playing bagpipes, its strokes of violet, magenta, and cyan so thick the paint could be yarn.

“Yeah, I was commissioned to do a Highland Cow with bagpipes,” Aunt Kat said. “It’s fun, don’t you think? Thought I’d hang it in here a few days before sending it to the buyer.”

There was a knock at the door, and my aunt jumped to her feet. “Tori,” Darnell shouted. “You left your mail in the truck.”

“I did?” I rummaged through my backpack. Only two envelopes. “Mustn’t have scooped everything off the floor.”

“Feed it through the mail slot,” Aunt Kat instructed. Three envelopes plopped into a basket beside the front door.

“Thanks for helping me pay my bills,” I said.

“Anytime.”

Aunt Kat grabbed the mail and held up a star-spangled, glittery envelope without a stamp. “Going to a party?” She handed it to me with an elfish twinkle in her eye.

“Yeah, must be a social thing for NA that someone threw in my mailbox.”

But I already knew what was in the envelope before I ripped it open, and as I pulled out a card written in my attempt at florid handwriting, my

face flushed to see it again. Aunt Kat leaned over my shoulder, and I shoved the invitation back into the envelope before she could read it and worry.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You’re right. It’s an invitation.”

“From who?”

“A friend you don’t know.”

“No, I saw your reaction.” She shook her head at me. “You’re hiding something, I can tell.”

“Fine,” I said, since I knew she’d only pester me until she got her answer. “Go ahead and find out.” I handed her the envelope. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing—” Aunt Kat pulled out the card, and it leapt from her hands like it was cursed. “My gosh! Why on earth is Charlie inviting you to his Fourth of July Barbecue tomorrow?”

“Technically, you don’t know it came from him. There’s no return address or postage.”

“Then who sent it?”

“How should I know?” I plopped down on the couch to consider how to best deal with my aunt’s curiosity. If she knew I’d invited myself, she’d be suspicious and would probably consider that I was using again. “You know,” I began, popping another bottle of Topo Chico with my thumb ring, “my boss just offered me an accidental death case at Uncle Charlie’s. The widow requested I investigate what happened to her dead husband.”

“What? Why would she want you?” Aunt Kat reached for the overstuffed ashtray. “And why are you getting this invitation at the same time? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“Exactly.” I took a swig of water. “I don’t have any online presence saying I’m a PI with my agency, so I don’t know how the widow knew my name. As for the invitation, I have no idea how it got to Victory House either. Maybe someone in the family’s been watching me.”

“Watching you? Tori, don’t you give me a panic attack with that kind of talk. Please tell me you turned that case down.”

“I did. Thought it would be a bad idea getting involved with the family.”

“Of course it’s a bad idea.” Aunt Kat flicked her lighter at a joint. “It’s been years since Charlie screwed you over.” She took a drag. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

“Yeah, maybe the widow’s working with whoever invited me,” I said. “If Luis didn’t die by accident—”

“Like he was murdered?” Aunt Kat’s forehead puckered up. “Then even better you turned it down. You know you’re not supposed to be working murders anymore, especially ones involving Charlie.”

“That’s why I was good and turned it down,” I reassured her. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Uncle Charlie did murder this guy. You know I’ve always suspected he had a hand in Dad’s death to steal the drive-in.”

“I know,” Aunt Kat sighed. “And I want to be honest with you right now. I don’t think you’re wrong about that either.”

I leaned forward. “What?”

“Well, I’ve always kept my thoughts on this subject to myself, but seeing that you’re doing so well managing your addiction and anger issues, I think I owe it to you to tell you my theory.”

“Your theory on what?” I exclaimed, my pulse shooting up. “That Uncle Charlie killed Dad?”

“I’m sorry, are you okay to hear this? I really don’t want to set off your temper.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said, more composed, “go on.”

“You were too young to remember, thank goodness,” Aunt Kat continued, “but Charlie and I saw what happened to Billy when your mom left and how he turned to heroin. Probably would have killed himself if not for you, and he was clean for a long while, but Charlie understood Billy’s addictive nature. What I think happened is Charlie got so jealous of Billy’s success that he deliberately got Billy hooked on drugs again.”

My face was fever-hot, hearing this. “What do you mean?” I pressed her. “How did Uncle Charlie get Dad addicted to heroin again?”

“This is making you upset, I can see it in your face—”

“Tell me.”

Aunt Kat sighed again. “I don’t think it was an accident what happened with that scalding sauce falling off the barbecue cooker onto Billy’s hands. My hunch is Charlie planted it there on purpose because he wanted Billy addicted to painkillers.”

“Oxies,” I stated as if I wasn’t on them now.

“Right, and you know better than anyone how addictive they are. Billy tore through his first bottle in a blink, and that’s when Charlie began dropping off heroin baggies in Billy’s mailbox. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie cut that stuff with something deadly either, if only to be sure he’d got the job done.”

I strangled the Topo Chico bottle as if it was my uncle’s neck. “What do you mean he dropped off baggies in the mailbox?”

“I saw Charlie’s car at the mailbox,” she said, “and found a baggie of heroin inside after he’d gone. I told Billy about it, but by then he was hooked and didn’t care. Then he overdosed soon after that. The way I see it, Billy poisoned himself to death, but Charlie gave him the poison.”

“So he could steal the drive-in,” I said under my breath.

I thought back to that Fourth of July weekend, half my life ago, when Swensons Barbecue became the most popular joint in KC, with cars lining up for hours to get a taste of that smoky, sweet brisket.

Weeks later, Dad was dead, and when his will turned up, revised days before his death, it blew all our minds because it said Uncle Charlie was the heir to the barbecue business. Aunt Kat argued in court it couldn’t be right, claiming there was a different will that said I was supposed to inherit my dad’s business when I came of age, but with my uncle’s connections in high places, he got away with his scheme.

So Uncle Charlie cut me out of the business and got super rich off my inheritance. His role in my dad’s relapse, though, was a new twist to the tale.

Now my chest was heaving, especially with those two oxies I’d taken. Though opioids were supposed to calm you down and make you feel all cozy warm inside, they could also, depending, incite explosive rage. This

situation called for it. Everything in me was at a boiling point—my heart rate, my blood pressure, my breath. I needed a release.

A shrill scream tore out my lungs, and I smashed my bottle on the coffee table, spraying water and glass everywhere.

“Oh my God, Tori,” Aunt Kat said. “Are you okay?”

I was still panting short breaths as I looked up from the mess to my aunt’s terrified blue eyes. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I’ll clean this up later.” I got up and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” She snatched my arm. “You’re red as a chili pepper. I’m sorry I upset you. I only thought you should know the truth at some point.”

“I’m fine.” I shook myself free. “I just need a moment.”

Available now, wherever books are sold.

BARBECUE SAUCE?

When private Investigator Tori Swenson gets an accidental death case that looks a lot like a murder committed at one of her uncle’s barbecue drive-ins, she decides it’s time to get revenge on her estranged relatives who cut her out of the family fortune. Pretending to want a reunion, Tori appears at her uncle’s Fourth of July party to secretly investigate her family. The case takes a sinister turn when her uncle suddenly dies, and Tori becomes not only a suspect in her uncle’s death, but also the killer’s next target. To uncover who dethroned the barbecue king, Tori will have to face her own fiery demons while pursuing a killer who wants to make dead meat out of her.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Cover Artwork: Klyaksun, Paul, Shirokuma Design

When your greatest enemy is your best chance of survival.

Still bearing wounds from barely surviving the Registration, Lynell struggles to fill her new role as the heir and leader of the very system that aimed to kill her. She must convince the Registration committee and the country’s oligarchs that she can fill her uncle’s shoes, while simultaneously proving to the country’s largest rebel group that she is nothing like her uncle —ruthless and greedy . When Sawyer, the leader of the Resurrection, reaches out with proof that they are both on the hitlist of powerful people who wish to destroy the rebels and take over the Registration, the two women form an uneasy alliance.

With mere days until the committee announces a policy change that will increase the Registration’s lethal power, Lynell and Sawyer must find out who wants them dead—and all signs point to someone close.

“Every once in a decade you read a genre bending thrill ride in the world of a sci-fi thriller that’ll grip you from the first to the last page. Madison Lawson is one of my favorite authors, and I can’t wait to read the next humdinger of a thriller.” The Strand Magazine, on The Registration

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311747 | $29.99 | Releases 10/1/2024

The Elysian Files #2

Madison Lawson writes novels full of suspense, social commentary, and complex relationships. She is an award-winning short story author, and her debut novel, The Registration, was optioned for film by Sony Pictures. Madison received her BA in English with a focus on Creative Writing from Texas A&M University and her MA in English Literature from North Carolina State University. To stay updated, follow Madison on social media and checkout her website madisonlawson.com.

THE REGISTRTION REWRITTEN

THE REGISTRTION REWRITTEN

THE REGISTRTION

REWRITTEN MDISONLWSON

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Madison Lawson

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311747

Paperback ISBN 9780744310511

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744310559

eBook ISBN 9780744310535

Audiobook ISBN 9780744310573

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

5 3 1 2 4

For my mom, the best friend a girl could ask for and proof that there is endless strength in genuine faith, love, and vulnerability. I hope I’m as strong as you one day.

PROLOGUE

“Y

ou are no son of mine.”

“Then I have nothing to lose.” CRACK!

The world splits in two. The sound of the gunshot is everywhere. In her brain and in her chest. In her memories. In her future. It will forever taint the life she’d let herself dream of.

Blood. It’s warm. It covers her hands, slips between her fingers, stains her skin. Zach’s blood. As her cousin’s life drains away.

The moment shatters with yelling and another gunshot and a dead guard and Daniel yelling for Lynell to get up so they can escape with their daughter and the woman who adopted her.

But they don’t. They can’t. They never will.

Lynell grew up with fictional stories about a benevolent king instead of a real, flesh and blood father. Instead of a loving family, she had fairytales,

an abusive stepfather, and a mother who could barely keep her head above water. Lynell grew up knowing that, one day, she could legally take another person’s life. Her parents made sure she had a Registration, like most citizens, which gives the holder the right to kill one person, as long as they Register the victim beforehand.

Lynell grew up planning to use that Registration to kill her stepfather so she could one day have a real, caring family complete with happy parents and a safe home.

She didn’t get any of that.

Instead, Lynell got Zachary Elysian, the cousin she never knew existed. The son of the most powerful man in the country, who also happened to be her paternal uncle.

Long ago Eric Elysian killed Lynell’s dad and it appeared as if history would repeat itself and Lynell would die at Zach’s hands. But Lynell learned that life never provided what she expected, because Zach saved her. He helped her betray his father and survive the two-week Registration period. He became someone she cared for. He became family.

Then he died. Shot in the chest. And Lynell was once again a prisoner in her uncle’s home.

Every dream she once had was shattered, replaced by one goal: leave the world a better place for her daughter. To do so, she couldn’t give her uncle what he wanted.

Lynell tried to do something good. She just wanted to stop Eric. She didn’t want the knife in her hand to slide into her uncle’s gut. She didn’t want more blood on her hands.

She didn’t want him dead.

But Lynell has never had a life where she gets what she wants. Lynell has a life built on pain and death. A life where she survives, because she must.

No matter what.

CHPTER 1

LYNELL

Thursday Morning

ERIC ELYSIAN MURDERED BY SUCCESSOR

Eric and Zachary Elysian Found Dead Presumably Murdered by Lynell Mize, Who Claims To Be the True Elysian Heir

On Wednesday, April 17th, officials responded to several reports of gun fire and conducted a search of the Elysian house. What they found could change everything for the Registration and the country.

Zachary Elysian, killed by a gunshot to the chest, was found wrapped in a body bag in a walk-in freezer. He appeared to have been dead for nearly twenty-four hours.

More shocking was what the first responders found in the office of our country’s savior. Eric Elysian, youngest son of Gideon Elysian and advocate for citizens’ rights to a Registration, had been shot and stabbed and appeared to have bled out a few hours before his body was found. Fingerprints on the knife found in his body belong to Lynell Mize, a young law clerk and resident

of Dallas. Mize, seen leaving Southwestern Medical Center on Sunday, was unavailable for questioning. Ramsey Davenport, a head Elysian Regulator, made a statement on Mize’s behalf.

“Mrs. Elysian thanks you for respecting her family’s privacy during this time,” Davenport said at Saturday’s Elysian press conference. “She mourns the deaths of both her cousin, Zachary, and her uncle, Eric, and is not to blame for either. Mrs. Elysian née Mize is currently being treated by the best doctors in our country, and we are optimistic she will be able to return to the Elysian mansion soon. When she’s able, she will accept her role as heir to and owner of the Registration. Until then, I will be acting in her stead.”

Davenport denied all allegations against Mize, including that she kidnapped her own daughter and had the adoptive parents killed. When asked about the legitimacy of Mize’s claim to the Registration, Davenport said, “Officials on staff have been briefed and back Mrs. Elysian’s claim with full confidence.”

If citizens were hoping for reassurance over the future of the Registration, they were disappointed. Davenport offered no comment on Mize’s plans and said only, “At this time, no decisions have been made, and no changes have been implemented.”

Despite Davenport’s confidence in Mize’s innocence, the investigations into the murders of Eric and Zachary Elysian are ongoing. Sources close to the case say detectives have questioned several Elysian staff members, and there is one eyewitness that claims to have seen Mize shoot Zachary Elysian. A few Elysian guards have left their posts in protest, but the majority seem to have accepted the change in leadership.

Lynell drops her phone onto her lap and leans back in the plush chair, allowing her eyes to flutter shut. The warm, all too familiar buzzing begins

at the base of her neck, and she reaches up to rub the knot in her shoulder. Daniel snores softly from their shared bed on the other side of the room. Exhaustion blurs the edges of Lynell’s thoughts and she envies her husband’s ability to sleep through the night without a sleeping aid. While he mercifully passes time in unconsciousness, Lynell has been stuck repeating the same routine for the past week, ever since her uncle was killed. Every day a nurse checks her vitals and she receives a fresh round of drugs to help with pain and to fight off infection. She sleeps for a few hours, often waking in a cold sweat in the echo of a nightmare.

Per usual, she moves to the chair under the large window, and spends the rest of the night scrolling through the news or social media to see what the country is saying about her.

First, they were at the hospital. But as soon as possible, they moved back to this house. “You need privacy and extra security,” Ramsey said. A few full-time nurses now treat them at the house.

Lynell might have argued if anyone else had suggested it, but Ramsey Davenport is the reason Lynell is alive. Though he used to work for her uncle, the man who tried to kill her a week ago, he betrayed Eric to help Lynell escape. And when Eric came at her with a knife, Ramsey didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“I shot him, he’s dead,” Ramsey said back then. “You didn’t kill him. I did.”

Ramsey didn’t stop at saving her life. He continually tried to save her heart and mind by convincing her that he killed her uncle, that she doesn’t need to carry the guilt, despite what the news is reporting or what the police think. Lynell doesn’t know Ramsey well, but she trusts him with her life. He’s already earned the trust a dozen times over. So, naturally, she chose Ramsey to lead on her behalf while she and Daniel were in the hospital. With Eric and Zach dead, Lynell is the owner and leader of the Registration, but she’d be nothing without Ramsey at her side.

Lynell looks back at the article on her phone, posted almost two days ago. It isn’t bad; it’s actually the most accurate thus far, despite claiming Lynell is a murderer and kidnapper.

The Daily reported that “sources close to Mize say she plans on selling Registration Immunities,” and the Evening Post called her a “deluded rebel sympathizer,” implying that she recently escaped a mental institution. She attempted bringing up the articles to Ramsey on Friday after seeing three in a row, but he waved her off, promising that he’d take care of everything.

But she can see the truth in his eyes. He’s worried. A few days ago, she overheard him on the phone with Tamara Nelson, one of the Registration committee members. “The worse Mrs. Elysian looks to the public the more at risk we all are,” he said. “Every time someone calls her a murderer or a rebel sympathizer or weak, another rebellion attempt becomes more likely. I’m not confident we’ll survive this time.”

Like clockwork, the buzzing in her neck travels up and turns into a pulsing headache. The bruises on her face have faded, the cuts on her cheekbone and lip and limbs are covered in scabs, the concussion isn’t as bad as they feared, and the surgeons were able to reattach the minor tendons in the fingers of her broken left hand. But she still feels the pain every time she thinks about her life now. She still has a line of drugs to take. She still has months of rehab to look forward to after her hand heals. She still gets deep, stubborn headaches.

She defeated all the odds in surviving Registration by multiple people, only to lose the life she knew.

Her phone lights up with a text from Ramsey. He sleeps even less than she, likely because he’s doing both of their jobs.

Lynell opens the text thread with her chief advisor.

Spoke to my contact in the police department a few hours ago. I’m confident they will rule Zachary’s death self-defense by Milton, one of the guards who died shortly after Zachary. They’re still looking into you for Eric, though. We will hear more this week, but they will likely want to ask you more questions.

A thick chord of grief tightens around Lynell’s heart when she reads her cousin’s name. She shuts her eyes, but the phone light still reaches her vision. Inhaling cold air through her nose, Lynell carefully breaks down the knot in her throat, trying to stifle tears.

Despite the way their relationship started, and the pain Lynell felt from Zach’s hands, his death pushes her to the edge of a breakdown. Somehow, in less than two weeks, Zach became her friend and family. She even dreamt of building a life that included him, her husband’s best friend and the cousin she never knew she had, but who she quickly grew to love and trust.

But the dream was shot in the chest, and she watched it disappear before her eyes.

Her phone buzzes, and Lynell looks down to read Ramsey’s second text.

Of course, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and you’ll have your lawyer with you. Don’t let this freak you out. Nothing has changed since last we talked. We’ll get it handled.

She types back a quick thank you before setting her phone down. Thanks to Ramsey’s work with the Registration committee and an expedited DNA test, her claim as the true heir was legitimized. And with the might of the Registration backing her, Ramsey assured her that neither she nor Daniel would be charged with murder for the death of Eric or Zach.

Despite his reassurances, a constant thrum of anxiety lives in her mind, like an exposed wire waiting to spark. Ramsey is used to people in power always getting what they want, having things go their way. Lynell isn’t. Power or not, she can’t stop picturing handcuffs around her wrists, and a judge who pronounces her guilty.

When Daniel gives a soft snore, Lynell puts her phone on the chair and crosses the room. She can’t help but smile at Daniel’s peaceful face. She may have dozens of daunting tasks awaiting her, but at least she won’t be facing them alone.

Lynell crawls into the bed next to Daniel, who gives a little huff but turns without opening his eyes to make room for her. “Can’t sleep?” he mutters, voice rough and quiet.

Settling into his side, Lynell rests her head under his chin. She doesn’t reply, knowing he’ll fall back asleep soon. Sure enough, a few seconds pass before his breathing settles back into a slow rhythm. She shuts her eyes and matches her breathing to his, letting the time pass in peace, until the door

cracks open and Ramsey sticks his head in. They make eye contact, and he disappears, clearly waiting for her outside. Lynell muffles a groan before climbing out of bed, pulling on a robe, and leaving the room. Wearing a three-piece suit sans tie, Ramsey stands a few feet away, tablet in hand and beard perfectly combed.

“Good morning,” he says, with a quick nod.

She eyes the watch on his wrist, noticing it’s barely seven. “Are we always going to be awake this early?”

“Yes.”

Lynell presses her lips together and exhales through her nose in reluctant acceptance. “What’s up?”

“We have some material to go over before the meeting this afternoon.”

Lynell runs her fingers through her tangled hair, dread weighing her limbs as she thinks about the thick stack of files she’s only halfway through.

The Registration, a system that provides two weeks every quarter during which any citizen with an unused Registration can legally kill one person, is owned by the Elysian heir. It also has a committee board of eight members: four are elected by the American people and four are chosen by the oligarchs. The Registration is a private business, and the committee is the equivalent of a board of directors. But due to its complicated and important nature, the board often acts as a bridge of sorts between the Registration, the citizens, and the oligarchs.

She’s met three of the members so far, but the other five remain a mystery. Ramsey scheduled this meeting while she was still in the hospital over the weekend, hooked up to a morphine drip and without any real concept of how much was required of her. After spending two weeks expecting to die any second, thinking about the future—even a few days into the future—had been an exercise in creative fantasies. And appointments were little more than conceptual ideas, not real events she’d have to attend, much less be prepared for.

But now the day is here. In a few hours, she’ll be meeting with people who, two weeks ago, were mythical higher beings. These people have been

working to keep the most important business in the country running for years, some since before Lynell was born. Now she’s supposed to waltz into a room as their new leader? She can’t even walk into what used to be her uncle’s house—now hers—without having a full-blown panic attack.

“Mrs. Elysian?” Ramsey says, pulling her from her thoughts. Judging by the way he’s watching her, Lynell assumes he said something she didn’t register.

She blinks, rocking back on her heels. “Sorry, what?”

Ramsey presses his lips together but doesn’t comment on her attention lapse. “I think it best that only you and I attend this meeting. We’ll introduce Mr. Carter later.”

Lynell frowns. “Why do we need to introduce Daniel at all?”

“He’s your husband. The committee needs to know and trust him as well.”

“Right,” Lynell says, even though Ramsey’s words are a shock to her system. It won’t be difficult for the committee to learn of Daniel’s rebel past. They may already know if they’ve done any sort of research. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll meet you in the office.”

“What about breakfast?” Ramsey asks, a slight note of concern in his voice. If it weren’t for his vigilant attention to keeping a schedule, Lynell would’ve missed half her meals this week. “I can have it brought to your room again.”

Lynell nods. “Thanks.” They’ve been back in the Elysian mansion for almost three days and each one has been a reminder of the nightmare this building was two weeks ago. Lynell hasn’t gone anywhere in the house but her and Daniel’s bedroom, and the office Ramsey had the staff set up next door. Nearly every meal is brought to them, and the nurses come to the bedroom to change their bandages and take their vitals.

“I will see you in the office at eight,” Ramsey says, excusing himself.

Lynell returns to the bedroom to find Daniel awake. He pushes the blankets back so she can slide in, and he kisses the side of her head.

“Maybe we should go to my place. You might sleep better there,” he says.

Lynell shakes her head. “We can’t. You heard what Ramsey said. We need to be surrounded by twenty-four-seven security. Plus, I need to be close to the Registration offices.”

“Then pick somewhere else for us to go. You’re the Elysian heir. Shouldn’t you have the option to choose where you live?”

She shrugs. “Maybe long-term. But right now, we don’t have the luxury of choosing where we do business when people are threatening to rip said business from my hands.”

“This isn’t a place to raise a child.” Daniel leans forward, his eyes widening slightly with an idea. “We could find a smaller place that has a guest house where the Raines’ could stay. Maybe that’ll help convince them.”

“Daniel . . .” she mutters, too quietly for him to hear.

Though Anna is their biological child, Lynell put her up for adoption after giving birth. But the couple who adopted Anna, the only parents her child has known, are now dead—collateral in the struggle against Eric Elysian—and Anna’s adoptive grandparents, the Raines, are fighting for custody. They are probably worried for her safety if Anna comes to live with her birth parents.

Lynell doesn’t blame them. If she gains custody, Anna will be in the spotlight—and a possible target for anyone wanting to get to Lynell.

“And when the people get to know you and realize the good you’re going to do for this country, they’ll love you as much as I do. You’ll keep the business, and we’ll have Anna.”

The corner of her mouth pulls up, but Daniel’s comment has the opposite effect than he probably expected. She knows that he believes the single “good” option is to listen to the rebels and end the Registration. But Lynell isn’t so sure. Not when she has no idea yet what it would really look like to choose good.

“Thank you, Danny.” Lynell presses a kiss to his stubble-lined cheek before climbing off the bed to go take a shower.

By the time she’s finished, their breakfast has already been delivered. Lynell eats quickly and heads to the office, which is right next to her bedroom.

In the hallway, she gets a glimpse of the staircase that leads to the first floor. Her heart flutters. Unbidden, a memory of the first time she crossed the threshold engulfs her mind like a chokehold.

She’d been terrified, standing next to her cousin, who was still a stranger at that point. Every man in her radius posed a lethal threat, and the building was so imposing that she felt no more significant than a worm stuck on hot pavement. The dining room on one side of the front door will forever be the place her life changed, when Eric told her she was an Elysian and she had to die. Across from it is the sitting room, which crawls with nightmares that she’d give everything in her newly-stuffed bank account to burn down.

So much blood, screaming, loss, and pain. A shelter for ghosts that will haunt her till the day she dies.

She bites her cheek to rip her mind back to the present, and with a deep breath, she pushes open the office door.

“Mrs. Elysian, perfect,” Ramsey says. The office was once a spare bedroom, but he had it transformed so Lynell wouldn’t have to use her late uncle’s office.

Simply thinking about the room sends a chill down her spine as she recalls the feeling of her knife sinking into Eric’s flesh.

Ramsey stands next to the L-shaped desk sitting in front of two large, fixed windows. Lynell crosses the room to slide into the chair, which holds her body like a perfect mold, grabs the edge of the desk, and rolls forward, studying the folders and binders Ramsey has already set out for her.

Sitting in one of the black chairs across the expanse of the heavy desk, Ramsey gestures to the stack of files on Lynell’s left and asks, “You’ve already familiarized yourself with the general files, right?”

Lynell nods, though she feels overwhelmed with the information they hold on the most important events and people in American history, from the war that prompted Gideon Elysian to suggest the Registration, to the evolution of the oligarchs, the Registration committee, and the ever-changing groups of rebels. Of course, like every citizen, she knows most of it, and

even knows more about the rebels thanks to Daniel. But the Resurrection, the current largest anti-Registration group, is less familiar. And, regardless, in her current position, all this information takes on new significance.

Ramsey smiles and taps the thickest binder directly in front of Lynell. “We’ll go through this before the meeting. It explains the Registration’s dayto-day operations, the overview of financials, summaries of past Committee meetings and any motions that have been passed, possible laws or policies that have been suggested, upcoming policy changes, and more.”

Eyes wide, Lynell looks from the binder to Ramsey. “Should we postpone the meeting to Monday, so I have more time to go over all of this?”

Ramsey shakes his head. “The committee needs to get to know you. We’ll be vulnerable until all eight members back your position.”

“Why do they have to back it?” Lynell asks. “I have the code, and I’m the only Elysian left.” She doesn’t mention that her daughter technically has Elysian blood, but judging by Ramsey’s pressed lips, it’s obvious he thought of the child. “The Registration is mine.”

“Yes, well, it’s best to have people on your side. Royal blood and a throne may give a man the title of king, but it does not make him king. It is the support of his council, people, and army that gives the king his power. If he does not have the money of nobility and loyalty of guards, then he’ll easily be overthrown.”

Lynell sucks in her bottom lip, biting on the dead skin as she watches Ramsey talk. Her mother used to call her dad a king, and Lynell grew up imagining him ruling a faraway kingdom. Even Eric compared his position to that of a king. She wonders when, if ever, this office chair will begin to feel like a throne.

“So, you’re saying that everything I did to survive was pointless?” She struggles to keep the anger out of her voice, but the lift of Ramsey’s eyebrow suggests she fails.

“Not at all. It’s much easier for a king to gain the loy—” “Ramsey,” Lynell interrupts, holding her hand up to stop him. “Please drop the king metaphor and speak plainly.”

He nods, unperturbed, and continues. “Having the name and blood of an Elysian is essential to gaining the committee’s loyalty. You gain all of this as the surviving Elysian heir.” Once again, he gestures at the binders in front of him and then around the room, as if to encompass the house and everything and everyone inside. “You inherit money, information, fame, and the loyalty of those who will always follow an Elysian, no matter what. All of this being yours by law is what made you a threat to Mr. Elysian. However, if you don’t make an effort with the committee, you’ll lose their support, and their support is vital. They are your connection to the oligarchs. They have tremendous sway and influence over the entire country. Who you are has given you this power. What you do is how you’ll keep it.”

“Right.” Lynell nods. “If the committee disapproves of me and actively works against my claim, I lose it all.”

“Precisely.”

“What about my people? The guards and informants and employees?”

“Most are loyal to you by default. But it would be in your best interest to get to know them and gain their trust as well.” Ramsey leans forward and taps a binder at her far right. “This has a list of all positions within the company and their roles, salaries, importance, and how long each employee has been in that position or with the company. I suggest you wait to get to that one until you have the committee and oligarchs on your side, and have had time to go over any important upcoming dates and meetings. Those few dozen people are much more powerful than the thousands of employees on your payroll.”

“Got it,” Lynell says. She vaguely remembers discussing basic positions in the company and telling Ramsey to make executive decisions for her until she was out of the hospital, but the details of the conversation escape her. She presses her hands on either side of the main binder. “Where do I start?”

“First, you need to firmly decide who your Chief Operating Officer will be, as they’ll go with you to the meeting and help guide you through everything.”

Lynell frowns. She’d been thinking of Ramsey as her right hand, but that can hardly be his official title. Pieces of that far away conversation in the hospital room return, and she thinks she remembers promoting Ramsey to . . . something. “Didn’t I make you the COO already?”

Ramsey doesn’t smile, but Lynell imagines him grinning with fondness. One day, she’ll earn that fond grin from him. “You technically promoted me to the position of ‘figuring everything the fuck out and keeping my family safe.’ I was one of the five head Regulators, but since that conversation, I’ve been working as your Chief Security Officer. The last one died when Zach—” He stops short, but Lynell feels the rest of his sentence deeper than if he had said it.

“So, who’s my COO?”

“You don’t have one yet. I’ve been handling most of those responsibilities, with assistance from others.”

“Who was Eric’s COO?”

“Robert Harmon, but he’s been wanting to retire for years,” Ramsey says. “During the . . . unconventional transfer of ownership from Mr. Elysian to you, Harmon took the opportunity to step down. I’ve included Mr. Elysian’s list of Harmon’s possible successors. There’s also a list of people qualified to be your CSO, if you’d like me to return to my position of head Regulator.”

Lynell is shaking her head before Ramsey finishes speaking. There are few people she trusts, and Ramsey is one of them. She’s not about to lose him to some stranger her uncle deemed worthy of the position. “Actually, I’d like for you to officially take the position of COO.”

Ramsey manages not to smirk, but she can still see a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “And as for your CSO?”

Lynell groans. “There are options here?” she asks, holding up the folder he’d slid across the desk.

Ramsey nods. She picks at the edge of the folder, thinking. Next to Ramsey, there’s one other Regulator and employee that she sees herself genuinely trusting, and he’s currently acting as her main bodyguard.

“What about Hayes Booth?” she asks.

“Perhaps,” Ramsey says. “He’s a bit young, but with the proper training, he could do well.”

She wants to give Hayes right then, but her personal feelings aren’t enough for such an important role. So, she taps the folder and says, “I’ll look through it later, but I want Hayes added to the candidates. Until we can focus on the appointment or start Hayes’s training, let the other four head Regulators deal with it. As long as you don’t actively distrust any of them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ramsey says, which feels weird. Lynell is two decades younger than him, not a ‘ma’am.’ “Now that that’s settled, let’s begin.”

He launches into explanation after explanation while they flip through the binders. Lynell follows as well as she can, highlighting certain sections and sticking tabs at the top of pages. The overwhelming responsibility of her new position seems to flow over her in waves each time she reads something new.

Worse, every other page has her thoughts wandering off to other concerns not at all connected to the Registration.

She reads about Warner Golden, a seventy-three-year-old committee member, and his daughter, whom no one has seen or heard from in years, and this makes her think about the many dangers to Anna. She reads about Michaels Sutton, the only oligarch amongst the seven men who also actively dislikes the Registration, and wonders if she’ll have the courage to speak against a system most of the country seems to love.

After a mind-numbing hour, Lynell finishes with one thick file and opens the one on today’s meeting and the objectives. As she does, she somehow feels that this is where she was meant to be, right here, tackling this behemoth one bite at a time, but worries she’ll drown in responsibilities. This complex world is something she’s never imagined to be hers. The magnitude of responsibility, knowing the balance of lives that are in her hands, is an adrenaline kick the equivalent of fifteen espressos on an empty stomach.

She rubs her eyes and props her elbows on the desk, about to read something called “Three-Part-Policy,” when she wrinkles her nose at a rich,

powdery, bitter smell. She looks up from the file to ask if Ramsey also notices, but her words are drowned in the shriek that fills the entire house. The noise hits beyond her eardrums down to her bones, vibrating an almost painful rhythm. She barely has time to register the alarm before an all-consuming blast makes the vibration in her bones feel gentle.

The world shudders and breaks around her, launching her from the chair. Agony bursts across her arm, forcing her onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling. A sharp ringing replaces all other sounds. Dust and smoke clog her lungs, her eyes stinging from particles filling the tear ducts. Black spiderwebs stretch across her vision.

Slowly, her brain catches up with the last few seconds. She smelt smoke. Heard a fire alarm.

Then there was the boom so loud that only one thing could be responsible.

A bomb.

CHPTER 2

SAWYER

Thursday Morning

“M iss Sawyer! I drew you on my letter!” Amara shouts, waving a piece of pink construction paper above her head. She’s pushed herself to the front of a crowd of children and is hanging off the counter separating the kids’ room from the hallway.

“Did you?” Sawyer D’Angelo smiles and stops in front of the counter. She sets down her coffee cup, reaches out for the paper, and studies the scraggly words that Amara likely copied from the board on the other side of the room. A colorful image depicts Sawyer with purple hair rather than her natural blonde and four fingers. A speech bubble above Sawyer’s head reads “We will resorect!”

“This is beautiful,” Sawyer exclaims, glancing around to see the children all writing letters to the oligarchs, Registration committee, lawyers, representatives, and priests, urging them to join the fight against the Registration. She remembers leading a similar exercise a few years ago. She’d encouraged the kids to personalize the letters by adding stories illustrating how the Registration hurt their families, and how the Resurrection helped. Since its formation four years ago, the Resurrection has grown into the largest rebel group in the country. Every day, Sawyer is in awe of how far

they’ve come, unable to believe anything she started could be this successful. They still have much to do, but she feels pride watching these kids, Resurrection members’ children happily spending their days doing their part in making this country a better place.

“I’m going to make another one with Miss Ellery on it,” Amara says.

Grief flares in Sawyer’s chest at the mention of her late wife. Ellery has been gone for six years, but her legacy persists. The fact that she was wellknown before she died, and that her death was a hate crime, adds to her allure. Keeping Ellery’s memory alive is good for the Resurrection. After all, her death is the reason Sawyer started this group.

Before waiting for a response, Amara turns around and runs back to the center of the room where she drops onto a stool next to Gael, a seven-year-old boy whose grandparents moved to Dallas to hopefully earn enough money to help their daughter pay for him to have a Registration when he was born. Unfortunately, many Latino families and other minorities can’t afford Registrations, because few banks offer loans to lowerincome families.

Gael’s parents joined the Resurrection when he was four, after his baby sister died from complications during childbirth. His parents knew the baby had a low chance of survival, but they didn’t have a Registration to end the pregnancy. Maybe if the baby survived, they never would’ve joined the rebellion. But she didn’t, and the loss turned them against the Registration. Many members have similar heartbreaking stories.

Sawyer heads down the hallway, past several offices. The landlord of the building, a Resurrection supporter, began renting to them at a huge discount a month ago, and the extra space will do wonders for their cause, allowing people to work in one place and drop off their kids at the daycare before heading to work. She’s not blind to the fact that several recruits joined the rebellion for the resources more than the cause. The Resurrection offers occasional childcare, educational materials, free meals for people who show up to volunteer or attend a protest, and access to medical care from rebels who are also doctors, nurses, and vets. Very few people will sacrifice

time, effort, materials, and money for a rebellion without some incentive or promise of success. Sawyer unlocks her office and pushes the door open, then stops dead, dropping her bag and forgetting everything else as she stares at the mess in her office.

Flower petals scatter the floor, a few dozen black and white photos mixed in. Setting her coffee on the table by the door, she leans down and picks up the closest photo, studying the image closely. The picture shows her unlocking her home front door, hair falling out of a bun and wearing a black workout top revealing several of her tattoos.

Sawyer gasps, and the photo drifts slowly back to the floor. Each one is of Sawyer, taken in the last few days without her knowledge. She struggles to steady her breathing as she takes in the far wall. The giant window overlooking the courtyard has been completely covered by photos, obscuring the outside world. The room feels like a coffin rather than an office.

Her saliva is acid in her throat as she swallows hard and steps closer to the wall of photos. These images all show gruesomely completed Registrations—bodies without a recognizable face after being blown apart by a shotgun, bloodied scalp tissue, grey matter, and brain covering the surroundings. A child lying in her princess bed, purple markings around her neck where someone clearly held her down and choked her. People lying in their own blood with multiple stab wounds littering their chests. Broken corpses with limbs twisted at odd angles after having been pushed off high buildings or bridges. Women hanging from chains, their naked bodies beaten and broken. People reduced to a pulp after being run over by trains or cars or buses.

With each new image, Sawyer’s lungs seem to stop taking in air. Blood, bone, bruises, and suffering surround her, a thousand taunting voices of the dead displayed like sadistic art.

Art meant for her.

Several pictures have been tampered with. About a third of the heads are covered by cutouts of her own. Sawyer’s face stares back at her, atop the bodies of The Registration’s most tortured victims.

In the center of the pictures are two printed news stories. The first is an article about Lynell Elysian, the second is the report of Ellery’s death six years ago. When weeds thrive, is written in red ink over the first article, and over Ellery’s face on the second article it says, flowers die. When weeds thrive, flowers die.

This is the third time Sawyer has gotten this message, and it’s clear every time she reads it. As Lynell, the weed, thrives, Sawyer, the flower, will die. Someone seems to believe that Lynell’s power will cause Sawyer’s death. Without thinking, she reaches out and touches Ellery’s image. Moist ink meets her skin, and she yanks her hand back as if stung.

Whoever did this was here not long ago. In Sawyer’s office. They might still be in the building.

How did they get in? How did they have a key to her office? Did no one see them?

The room feels warm, and her back sweats as she takes a deep breath and steps away from the bloody collage of death, her heart thundering against her sternum. She stumbles and catches herself on the edge of her desk as black fills her vision. Her head feels light and dizzy, like she’s been lost in a freefall for hours and no longer remembers how to stand on her own feet. Rocks fill her throat, making every breath difficult and painful. Somehow, she manages to turn away from the wall, but that puts the center of the office on display again. Only now does she notice the type of flower petals painting her floor.

Peonies.

Ellery’s favorite.

Sawyer starts to fall. She grabs the edge of her desk and lowers herself to the ground, back pressed against the cold, sturdy metal. Gasping for air, she covers her mouth and blinks several times, trying to free her eyes from burning-hot tears.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

WHEN YOUR GREATEST ENEMY IS YOUR BEST CHANCE OF SURVIVAL.

STILL BEARING WOUNDS from barely surviving the Registration, Lynell struggles to fill her new role as the heir and leader of the very system that aimed to kill her. She must convince the Registration committee and the country’s oligarchs that she can fill her uncle’s shoes, while simultaneously proving to the country’s largest rebel group that she is nothing like her uncle—ruthless and greedy. When Sawyer, the leader of the Resurrection, reaches out with proof that they are both on the hitlist of powerful people who wish to destroy the rebels and take over the Registration, the two women form an uneasy alliance.

With mere days until the committee announces a policy change that will increase the Registration’s lethal power, Lynell and Sawyer must find out who wants them dead—and all signs point so someone close.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Photography: Chainatp / Matejmo / NanoStockk

What if revenge ripples and echoes through time?

You can’t choose your family or your destiny or your legacy. But once upon a time, a woman named Ava St. James had tried to build happiness upon the remains of her broken heart. For better or worse. Decades later, the Bakers are headed for a perfect family vacation. A full month at a house by the lake; the house passed down from a mysterious aunt no one ever talks about. Love and good intentions aside, what begins like a relaxing vacation turns into a nightmare as each of the Bakers’ nerves slowly but steadily begin to wear away at the edges. Is it their fraught family dynamics or is something more sinister at work?

The house has welcomed them, but will it ever let them leave?

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311341 | $28.99 | Releases 10/29/2024

Mia Dalia is the internationally published author of Estate Sale and Haven (CamCat Books | Fall 2024), and many other novellas and novelettes. Her short fiction has been published online by Night Terror Novels, 50-Word Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Pyre Magazine, Tales from the Moonlit Path, among others, and in print anthologies by Sunbury Press, Nightshade Press, HellBound Press, Black Ink Fiction, and many others. She is a lifelong reader, and a longtime reviewer of all things fantastic, thrilling, scary, and strange.

NOT EVERY HOME IS A

HAVEN

MIA DALIA HAVEN

HAVEN

HAVEN

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Mia Dalia

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744311341

Paperback ISBN 9780744311754

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744311778

eBook ISBN 9780744311761

Audiobook ISBN 9780744311433

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by Md Saidur Rahman, Memories, Seamartini

5 3 1 2 4

to chelsea , until the end of the world .

“The past is never dead. It’s not even the past.”

—William Faulkner

PROLOGUE

Once upon a time

But no, of course not. Too many stories have begun that way, and this was no fairy tale, even though it might have been easier to think of it as one. A fairy tale with ogres and princesses. How lovely.

How wrong.

A life so meticulously structured around the present can become easily overwhelmed by the past rushing in. All it takes is one careless glance back. Those are dangerous. Just ask Orpheus.

All this free time can be dangerous too, making one nostalgic, retrospective. Looking back, looking forward, the pages of the book of time turn.

JEFF

DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE until the road is done with you. Until it spits out the final destination at you like some kind of begrudging reward. Until you’re through. That’s the deal.

The summer morning is unseasonably autumnal, as crisp as a freshly starched shirt. The leaves are looking festive, though it is much too early for them to change colors. Maybe they are gearing up for the months to come, putting on a dress rehearsal. In theory, at least, the leaves are meant to make up for the miserable New England winter that inevitably follows their departure.

Jeff Baker tries to enjoy nature, and when that fails, he focuses on the road itself—the way it disappears beneath the wheels of their fiveyear-old forest-green Subaru. It’s soothing in a way, the certainty of the motion, the steady progress forward. North.

There used to be a time when Jeff loved driving; a time that by now is but a vague, faded memory. His first car was a beat-up ’87 Mustang, produced decades after that pony was at its prime, and the two of them

were inseparable. The AC never worked, so the windows were rolled down for as long as the weather permitted, the wind blowing through his hair like freedom, like youth itself.

It seems that ever since then, his vehicle selections have been increasingly less exciting, more sedate, staid. Practical. Now here he is, behind the wheel of a car that positively announces to the world that a liberal-minded, environmentally conscious family is inside it. A cliché if there was ever one.

Jeff knows that it suits the man he is today: a husband, a father, someone with a stalled but reasonably lucrative middle management job; a man with a softening gut and receding hairline, wading knee-deep into the still, murky waters of middle age.

He sighs, adjusts the rearview mirror, and tries valiantly to ignore the kicking at the back of his seat. When that doesn’t work, he snaps, abruptly and frustratedly.

“JJ, how many times have I told you not to do that?”

Jeff can feel his son’s insolent shrug without turning around to see it. It’s one of JJ’s signature moves—the kid is the personification of a sullen, surly teen. Although they share a name and Jeff loves the kid, he recognizes nothing of himself in Jeff Jr.

His son is lazy, aimless, slovenly in a way that physically upsets fastidious Jeff. What’s worse is that the kid doesn’t seem to be clever or interesting or even funny. He gets by in school with barely passing grades, participates in no sports or extracurriculars, and spends most of his free time glued to one screen or another. The video games he plays seem too violent to Jeff, but he can’t figure out a way to ban them outright, because: (a) he doesn’t want to be that dad, and (b) he doesn’t necessarily believe in the connection between on-screen and real-life violence. After all, violence has been around long before video games were even invented.

Still, it’s difficult to think of a bigger waste of time than these stupid games. At least the kid wears headphones to play them. The constant

rat-tat-tat of guns in the background would have driven Jeff crazy by now. Jessie is sitting next to her brother, occupying, it seems, only half of her seat. Wherein her brother’s girth is forever expanding, Jessie appears to be shrinking. It makes her brittle, Jeff thinks, in appearance and temperament. So much like her mother.

The two kids are only a couple of years apart, but you’d never guess they were related. Never guess they came from the same house, the same people. There is a lot of nature vs. nurture baggage there that Jeff doesn’t care to unpack.

His daughter is unfathomable to him; the way she talks in text message abbreviations, the eager manner in which she subscribes to the latest trends without ever taking a moment to examine them for herself, how appearance-conscious she is.

This isn’t a great time to be a kid. There’s a steady bombardment of social media disseminating shallow values, unchecked materialism, and flat-out lies.

He doesn’t even know what wave of feminism everyone’s supposed to be riding now. Jenna might, but he loathes to ask. She wouldn’t just answer, there’d be a lecture. Jeff despises being lectured and tends to avoid long-winded debates. He likes simple things, short, clear-cut explanations, yes-or-no answers whenever applicable.

Jenna is doing her nails next to him; screech-screech goes the thin emery board—a sound Jeff can feel in his vertebrae. He hates it, hates the way he has to just sit next to her and inhale the dead nail particles she’s sending into the air, but asking her to stop would be as futile as expecting JJ to stop kicking the freaking seat.

Jeff likes to think of himself as a man who picks his battles. And there have been some. Over the years, that number has dwindled. Lately, he doesn’t know if it’s just something he tells himself to cover the fact that he has, slowly and inexorably, become a pushover.

Jenna is thin like their daughter, all gym-tight muscles and yoga-flexible tendons. She has been dying her hair the same shade of blond for

so long that sometimes Jeff is surprised to see her natural light brown color in the old photos. She looks good, younger than her years, certainly younger than Jeff.

If he doesn’t tell her that enough, it’s only because they don’t talk that much anymore in general. Or maybe it’s because her undeniable physical attractiveness appears to have lost the sunny warmth, easy charm, and shy sexiness of the Jenna he fell in love with so long ago. It’s almost like his wife has Stepforded herself, trading in all the delightful aspects of her character, all of her fun quirky self for a perfect surface appeal.

Is that what two decades of marriage do? Or living in a society obsessed with youth and beauty? Or being a mother? Or—a more somberly horrifying thought—is that what living with Jeff for twenty years does?

Jeff wants to hit the rewind button and watch their lives again, in slow motion, noting every salient plot point, every crucial twist and turn, to understand how they got here. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?

From one of his more interesting but ultimately useless college courses, Jeff remembers a quote: “Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.” It’s one of those sayings that sounds smart unless you really think about it, because once you do, you’ll see that the former part of it is ultimately useless, while the latter is simply unavoidable.

Jeff had a good time in college. He did well in high school too: just smart enough, just fun enough, just inoffensive enough to ensure certain easy popularity that enabled smooth sailing amid the various social cliques and characters. After graduating, out in the real world, his stock began to slowly but definitively tank. He could never quite figure out why; perhaps, something about the absence of predetermined social structure, or increased expectations.

Either way, by the time Jenna came along, he grabbed onto her like a life preserver and held on steadily and faithfully ever since.

He had never done well on his own when he was young, found solitude oppressive. Depressing, even. Now, of course, he’d kill for some, but it is much too late. Even his man cave occupies only a corner of the basement at home, sharing the rest of the space with laundry and storage and the moody boiler, and thus is perpetually loud and nowhere near private.

He likely isn’t going to get much peace and quiet for the next month either, but he agreed to go anyway.

After all, one simply doesn’t say no to a free vacation.

And sure, as he pointed out to Jenna while they were making plans, it wasn’t entirely free: there was the cost of gas, tolls, food, etc., but the main expense, the house, was taken care of, and so here they are now, driving, driving north.

“Are we there yet?” JJ pipes up from the back seat, too loudly because of the headphones he rarely takes off.

It was funny the first few times—no, not really—but now it grates on Jeff. He forces a smile. “Almost,” he replies with false cheer.

The truth is, everything around here looks exactly the same to him: the same tall trees, the same tiny weather-beaten towns, the same road signs. If not for the chatty GPS, he would be hopelessly lost. He wants to thank his digital navigator every time she points out a turn amid a number of interchangeable ones; she seems to be the only helpful person around.

Though, of course, she isn’t even a person.

Jenna is listening to an audiobook. Without even asking, Jeff knows it’s one of those domestic thrillers she loves that really ought to be shelved under women’s fiction.

Something about scrappy heroines untangling their husbands’ dark secrets. He tried a couple out of curiosity some time ago at Jenna’s prompting and found them unoriginal, uninteresting, and blandly indistinguishable from one another. When Jenna asked for his honest opinion, he gave it to her, like a fool. They never spoke of books again.

He shouldn’t have said anything; he certainly shouldn’t have added that it was still a step up from her normal self-help fare.

Jeff returned to his historical tomes, fictional and otherwise, spicing it up occasionally with a science fiction novel. Though lately, the sci-fi has been garbage; he hates all the space operas, all the sociopolitical messages overriding the plots. To him, the genre has always been progressive, subversive, and thought-provoking. He doesn’t know why it needs to try so hard now.

He tried giving some of his old books to his son, only to find them unread, languishing amid the piles of trash obscuring the floor of JJ’s room. Watching movies together proved equally futile. Jeff cannot force himself to sit through the mindless violent crap his kid enjoys. And if he has to see another freaking superhero movie . . .

Jeff doesn’t know what his daughter is listening to, but it’s likely the latest in pop music. Of all his family, Jessie is the most mysterious one to him. Almost a complete stranger, with his wife’s features and his surname. He loves her just as he loves JJ, but the kids remain baffling.

They are supposed to be a team. That was presumably the grand idea about the obnoxious cutesiness of giving their kids J names.

“We’ll all be a J. Baker,” Jenna told him at the time, back when he still found her enthusiasm, if not all of her ideas, adorable, and here they were. A family with interchangeable initials. Like they were the sort to embroider them on sheets and towels.

Like it mattered.

Jeff is the only one listening to the radio. Never politics—after the last election, he had stopped following them entirely. Now that there is another one coming up, it’s difficult to care or remain hopeful. A new decade is looming ahead.

The 2020s have an apocalyptic feel to Jeff. He sticks with music. The station he played while driving out of the city had faded into static miles ago, and now he’s stuck with some local DJ inexpertly mixing ’80s and ’90s hits, plying the nostalgia factor.

And hey, it’s working. Jeff remembers these songs. Remembers singing along to them, driving to them, drinking to them, making out to them. Sometimes he even sings along, but quietly. If his voice gets louder, he gets a kick in his seat, which may be unintentional but feels like an unspoken criticism.

He wishes he didn’t save up his vacation days so diligently. He wishes they weren’t set to expire due to the new company policy so that splurging them all on a month-long vacation was his best option. He wishes Jenna didn’t have to inherit access to this supposedly amazing lake house within driving distance that’s simply too good to pass up.

The house was never mentioned to him before, but then again, neither was Jenna’s aunt, Gussie. Or maybe she was, and Jeff forgot? Would he forget a name like Gussie?

From what he gathers, the childless, eccentric aunt left the house to her entire extended family to delight in on a timeshare basis, and Jenna finagled a month just for them.

They haven’t had a vacation in a while, and never one this long. Jeff faked excitement at the idea the way he felt he was supposed to, but his actual reaction was closer to the eye rolling the kids gave when Jenna made the announcement. At the time, he thought it was going to be trying and likely tedious. He still thinks so, but he went along with every step of the plan, and now they are almost there and it’s much too late to change a thing.

Maybe it will be relaxing, he tells himself without much conviction. Maybe the house will be larger than their small townhouse or have better soundproofing. Maybe he’ll finally be able to finish the Nero biography he started months ago.

The voice of experience pipes through, laughing at the tentative hopefulness of Jeff’s maybes. Jeff sighs and focuses on driving. “Sunglasses at Night” plays on the radio, and he sings along under his breath. “Don’t switch a blade on a guy in shades, oh no . . .”

A kick in the back of his seat follows as swiftly as a slap.

JENNA

IT’S SUCH A beautiful drive. Such a scenic one. Jenna wishes the kids would unglue themselves from their phones and enjoy it. Some days she feels like she can’t remember the last time she established meaningful eye contact with either of them. She knows they are just teenagers being teenagers, but then she remembers herself at that age, and she wasn’t like that. Or was she?

Memory is tricky. Jenna once read in a self-help book that it rewrites itself ever so slightly every time we reach for it. What a concept. It unsettles her, makes her feel like she’s been lying to herself, like parts of her life have been a lie. But no, she knows better.

She can trace every path that led her here, to this car, sitting next to a balding, somewhat overweight version of a man she married twenty years ago with two distracted teens behind her. For the most part, Jenna is pleased with her choices.

Or at least she tells herself often enough so that it comes to constitute the foundation upon which her life is built.

When Jenna reaches back into her memory box, it provides her with a picture of a shy brown-haired girl who was pretty good at a variety of things and great at none. She had nice but unexciting friends and nice but unexciting boyfriends. An English degree from a middling small college because she couldn’t think of something she was passionate about. A decent and supportive family with entirely too many people in it to genuinely know and adore anyone individually, though it lent itself easily to a sort of warm, if much too general, connection to all of them.

Her father was one of nine. The Doyles are a proper brood of towheaded New Englanders, with open, honest faces, ruddy cheeks, and large, trustworthy hands. All boys and one girl, the elusive Aunt Gussie.

Augusta at birth, but that never took.

The boys of the clan all went on to have solid, if unremarkable, middle-class lives as CPAs, bank workers, and project managers, but Aunt Gussie was the adventurous one.

At some point in her adventures, she managed to displease the family to such an extent that they spent the remaining decades of their respective lives pretending she never existed at all.

Though her family was generally chatty and forthcoming, Jenna was never able to find out what grand transgression Aunt Gussie was guilty of. She was barely, if ever, mentioned. The ultimate persona non grata, a taboo.

The woman spent most of her later life in Europe, so Jenna had no direct recollections of her. They’d never met.

In the few early family photos that featured Gussie, she looked fierce and determined, sharp jutting chin pointing directly at the camera, something like a smirk playing on her lips. A character, for sure.

Jenna wishes she got to know her aunt, but it is too late for that now. She did find it distasteful the way her family pounced on Gussie’s inheritance. She had never seen them display such naked greed until then.

How the woman managed to accumulate her wealth no one really knew—unless they knew and weren’t saying—but each of her brothers got a precise amount of thirty dollars and each of their children a princely sum of ten grand and a share in a vacation house upstate.

Jenna had seen the photos her cousins took of their time there; it looked idyllic. A place sprawling enough to qualify as an estate, it even had its own name like the houses in books, Haven, though everyone always referred to it simply as Gussie’s.

Vacationing there was known as “going up to Gussie’s.” It was like suddenly, after decades of exile, her aunt had become a proper family fixture once again. Apparently, the proverbial absence did create fondness in certain cases.

Jenna had meant to go for a while, but it seemed like something was always getting in the way. She sensed her husband’s reluctance and her kids’ ambivalence, but eventually, she simply made a choice to ignore it.

It was her time to attend to her needs, and everyone else was just going to have to put up and shut up. She didn’t read all those self-help books for nothing.

Jenna was proud to establish her agency, proud to be in control. She made all the plans, worked out the timing with her family, checked out the area for family-friendly activities, all that.

If only the heroine in the book she’s listening to had similar self-possession, but no, the simpering imbecile is kowtowing to her brute of a husband and practically asking to be murdered in some elaborate and mysterious way.

Jenna has the book all figured out, and she’s barely halfway through, but she continues to listen because she likes the plucky voice of the audio narrator, and she enjoys the feeling of superiority the story gives her.

They are all the same, these thrillers she borrows at the library through the app she figured out all by herself, thank you. The women in

the books are either victims, which makes Jenna feel great about herself, or they are heroes fighting back, which gives Jenna a vicarious thrill of relatability.

She too, she thinks, is a protagonist of her own story. Sure, her story isn’t all that interesting and certainly not book-worthy, but maybe one day. She’ll be ready.

At that thought, she pats her husband’s doughy thigh and elicits an uncertain small smile from him. It pleases her how easy it is to make Jeff happy. It’s such a wonderful quality in a spouse.

Her hands look good, she nods approvingly to herself—she did a good job on her nails. For the longest time she kept them mommy-short; now they are in longer, sexy predator mode.

She wonders if Jeff notices. She hopes he does.

Jenna remembers the young man she married, because he was decent and nice and—if she’s completely honest with herself—the first one to ask.

At that time in her life, she was a tiny fish in a giant pond of the city’s publishing industry, watching her friends marry and move away. Burned out on passion but still craving companionship, Jenna eventually came to recognize and appreciate decency and niceness as attractive qualities in a partner.

Jeff didn’t so much sweep her off her feet as steadied her by the elbow. She told herself it was enough.

The thing is, it’s still, mostly, enough. Jeff is still nice and decent. And not imaginative enough to have ever cheated. The thought elicits a small, confused pride.

Sure, they often talk at cross-purposes, and sure, their sex life has dwindled to special occasions, but they are still a solid team. They are raising nice, decent kids.

Or at least, she thinks they are. It’s difficult to tell. Her kids are a mystery. At least Jessie looks like her. Who is JJ supposed to look like, exactly?

Both of them have the strangest relationships with food. Jessie is always dieting, washing down apples with coffee, and snacking on holdthe-peanut-butter celery stalks.

JJ eats like a zombie freshly released into a crowded mall. No food is safe around him. Her son’s size bewilders Jenna, though she’d never let it show. JJ is too old to pass for something cutesy like husky, and the kid smells too. Like stale sweat, unwashed hair, and dirty socks. Jenna wishes Jeff would talk to him about it.

Jessie, on the other hand, spends way too much time watching online tutorials and following instructions carefully for just-so hair and just-right makeup. It makes her look simultaneously too old and too young for her years, like those toddlers dressed up to compete in pageants.

The last time Jenna attempted to have a heart-to-heart with her daughter, it crashed and burned on the topic of safe sex. Jenna comforts herself with the knowledge of having done her best; she isn’t ready to be a grandma.

Some of her cousins seem to have perfectly happy well-adjusted children, and she quietly resents them for it. It isn’t like she didn’t have the time.

Jenna stopped working—slightly reluctant but mostly, overwhelmingly, relieved—after Jessie was born, and since then, never found the right time to go back.

Once the kids reached the age when they didn’t need full-time mothering, it was nearly impossible to reenter the workforce. Too many blank years on her resume. The business had changed too much. Etc., etc.

She turned her energy to housekeeping and working out instead, with pride and dedication any career woman might appreciate. And it shows, she’s certain of it.

Their house is the cleanest, most organized one she’s been in; and she is in the best shape of her life, looking fitter and more attractive than any of the women her age she knows.

Jeff may not appreciate it, but those women do. She knows they do. Women are like that, no matter what they say, competitive to a fault.

It gives Jenna a thrill to be compared and found superior. It’s what drives her to push herself at the gym, walking, running, pedaling. It’s what motivates her sweaty uncomfortable yoga sessions. Jenna is being her best self. The rest can just fall in line around her.

She notices JJ kicking the back of his father’s seat and contemplates saying something, but then again, that ought to be on Jeff.

For the longest time, her husband, never much of a disciplinarian, was content playing the good cop. When that appeared to zap too much energy, he became a content listen-to-your-mother second fiddle. Now he seems to have just given up altogether. He’ll say something but never with any feeling behind it. No wonder the kids don’t listen.

She reminds herself that he’s busy, that he’s working, but it annoys her still. To shoulder the majority of parenting means to also shoulder the responsibility for the majority of parenting mistakes. Jenna hates being wrong.

She was wrong to suggest music lessons for either of her tone-deaf offspring. Wrong to push JJ into sports. Wrong to ever discuss weight and fitness with Jessie.

But she isn’t wrong about this vacation. It’ll be the thing that’ll finally brings them closer, she just knows it. The thing they’ll remember years from now with fond recollections.

Their return to family values, to nature, to each other.

Jenna had even, optimistically, packed her good underwear, unearthed from the bottom of the drawer.

Not like she particularly desires Jeff’s heavy, unimaginative lovemaking, but she misses being the center of his attention. Frankly, anyone’s attention, but she is much too fastidious for an affair, so Jeff will just have to do.

With the lights off, her husband can still pass for a tentative, considerate young man whom she once taught about her body, about the

precise spot on her neck to kiss, and the exact time to pull her hair just so. She wishes he’d use Rogaine or a gym, but he’s still tall and still smells the same, like sandalwood and pine, and sometimes it’s enough.

With time-worn affection, Jenna watches him mouth words to the song on the radio.

“Twenty years and you haven’t killed each other. Congrats.” That’s what it said on the card Jenna’s favorite cousin gave to her on their last anniversary.

Going by the books she’s been into lately, it is indeed quite an achievement.

The heroine in the audiobook gasps in shock, uncovering a clue about her duplicitous husband that Jenna figured out an hour ago. Lying in fiction seems to come as a surprise each and every time. Jenna rolls her eyes and chuckles to herself. Now the fool is in for it.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

WHAT IF REVENGE RIPPLES AND ECHOES THROUGH TIME?

Once upon a time, a girl was born to a family with only boys, a sturdy brood of New Englanders who never found it in their hearts to appreciate someone different from them. They broke her heart and almost broke her, but she got away. Decades later, the Bakers are headed for a perfect family vacation. A full month at a house by the lake. A house passed down from a mysterious aunt no one ever talks about. Love and good intentions aside, what begins like a relaxing vacation turns into a nightmare as each of the Bakers’ nerves slowly but steadily begin to fray away at the edges. Are the Bakers’ true selves finally being peeled away, layer by layer? Or is it the house, and will it ever let them leave?

For readers who enjoy TheShining by Stephen King, BurntOfferings by Robert Marasco, and Kill Creek by Scott Thomas.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Cover Artwork: Geerati, Yaroslav Gerzhedovich

Be careful what you see when you shouldn’t be looking.

Residents of the posh Upstate New York neighborhood of Deer Crossing enjoy all the amenities wealth provides. From drive-up dog-grooming to monthly botox parties, these lucky suburbanites have everything they could ever want. And one thing they don’t. Stalker Caroline Case, who wheels her infant along their streets each night with just one goal . . . to spy on anyone too careless or too foolish to close their window blinds.

Convinced the owners of the impressive homes are living a dream existence, the troubled new mom hopes to escape her working-class life by prying secrets from the unsuspecting. But the fairy tale twists into a nightmare when she sees something she shouldn’t. Something that shatters her illusions about the people in the privileged community she’s obsessed with, even as she begins to doubt what she saw.

As Caroline investigates the event, shocking secrets are laid bare, and nothing is as it seems. She knows she must prove something sinister occurred in Deer Crossing or risk letting someone get away with murder.

Jennifer Sadera’s copywriting background at a book publisher, a newspaper, and several national women’s magazines prepared her for fiction writing. She relies on a lifetime of personal and professional experiences to create realistic characters, set them in impossible situations, and allow them to work their way out.

KnowShe Was

jennifer sadera

I KnowShe Was There

jennifer sadera

I KnowShe Was There

jennifer

sadera I KnowShe Was There

jennifer sadera

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Jennifer Sadera

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744310955

Paperback ISBN 9780744310993

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744311020

eBook ISBN 9780744311013

Audiobook ISBN 9780744311037

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel

Interior artwork by CSA-Archive, George Peters

5 3 1 2 4

To my mom, Lynne, who instilled in me a lifelong love of reading; to the memory of my dad, James, my first writing teacher, editor, and ardent supporter.

And to my husband, CJ, for absolutely everything else.

one

Friday, August 11

Jane brockton was going to get caught.

My heart raced when Jane emerged from the side door of her home; what she and I were both doing was risky, but it was too late for regrets. I wondered if she thought so too. Probably. Her behavior was becoming alarmingly brazen. I pulled Emmy’s stroller closer and pushed aside boxwood branches, widening the portal I peered through. Although Jane’s across-the-street neighbors’ hedge was directly in front of her farmhouse-style McMansion, it was too dark this late at night for me to be seen.

Go back inside if you know what’s good for you.  I pressed my fingers to my lips as the man emerged from the house next to hers. Even if I’d yelled a warning, Jane Brockton wouldn’t heed it. Who the hell was I? Certainly not someone her neighbors on Woodmint Lane knew.

If Jane observed my late-night excursions through the streets of her stylish suburban New York neighborhood, her first instinct wouldn’t be to worry about her behavior.

Jennifer Sadera

I was prepared. If confronted by any resident of the exclusive enclave, I’d explain I walked the streets late at night to lull my colicky baby to sleep.

I couldn’t admit my ulterior motive—worming my way back onto Primrose Way and into my former best friend’s good graces. And there was no need to share how, lately, the lives of this neighborhood’s inhabitants had been luring me like a potent drug—or how Jane Brockton was fast becoming the kingpin of my needy addiction. Jane stood out, even in this community of excess: gourmet dinner deliveries, drive-up dog grooming, same-day laundry service, and monthly Botox parties.

Her meetings with the mystery man were far from innocent. The first tryst I’d witnessed was late the previous Friday night—exactly a week earlier. I’d strolled around the corner of Woodmint Lane just as the pair had emerged from their side-by-side houses and taken to the dark street like prowlers casing the block. I followed their skulking forms up Woodmint, being careful to stay a few dozen yards behind, until all I could discern was their silhouettes, too close to each other for friendly companionship. They’d eventually crossed Primrose Way and veered into the woods where the bike trails and picnic areas offered secluded spaces. When they didn’t emerge from the wooded area, I backed Emmy’s stroller up silently and reversed my route, heading away, my pulse still throbbing in my temples.

It was impossible to deny what was going on, as I watched similar scenes unfold three nights that week: Jane slipping soundlessly from her mudroom door like a specter, the flash of the screen door in the faint moonlight an apparent signal.

This night, as they hooked hands in the driveway between the houses, I slicked my tongue over my dry lips. She risked losing everything. I knew how that felt. Tim had left me before I’d even changed out his worn bachelor-pad sofa for the sectional I’d been eying at Ethan Allen. I watched them cross through the shadows, barely able to see them step inside the shed at the far end of Jane’s yard.

And all under the nose of her poor devoted husband, Rod. He couldn’t be as gullible as he appeared, could he?

A voice called out, shattering the stillness of the night. I flinched, convinced I’d been discovered. I scanned the immediate shadows, placing a hand over my chest to still my galloping heart.

“Jane?” It was Rod’s voice. I recognized the timbre by now.

Settle down, Caroline.

My eyes darted to the custom home’s open front door. Rod had noticed his wife’s abandonment earlier than usual. Warm interior light spilled across the porch floorboards and outlined Rod’s robed form in the door frame.

“Are you out here? Jane?”

The worry in his voice made me hate Jane Brockton. I flirted with the idea of stepping away from the hedge and announcing I’d witnessed her heading to the shed with the neighbor. Of course, that would be ridiculous. I was a stranger. My name, Caroline Case, would mean nothing to him.

Rod closed the door and my gaze traveled to the glowing upstairs window on the far left of his house. The light had blinked off half an hour earlier, like a giant eyelid closing over the dormered master bedroom casement. I knew exactly where their bedroom was because I’d studied the Deer Crossing home models on the builder’s website. I knew the layout of all three house styles so well I could escort potential buyers through them. I’d briefly considered it. Becoming a real-estate agent would give me access inside, where I could discover what life behind the movie-set facades was really like. Pristine marble floors, granite countertops, and crystal vases on every conceivable surface? Or gravy-laden dishes in sinks and mud-caked shoes arrayed haphazardly just inside the eye-catching front doors?

I suspected the latter was true for almost every house except for my former best friend Muzzy Owen’s place on Primrose Way. Muzzy could put Martha Stewart to shame.

I wedged myself and Emmy’s stroller further into the hedge. Becoming a real-estate agent wouldn’t connect me as intimately to Jane and Rod Brockton (information gleaned by rifling through the contents of their mailbox) as I was at this moment. Trepidation—and yes, anticipation—

Jennifer Sadera

laced my bloodstream and turned my breathing shallow as I waited for Rod to come outside and start his nightly search for his wife. Some may consider my interest, my excitement, twisted, but I didn’t plan to  use my stealthily gathered information against anyone. It was enough to reassure myself that nobody’s life was perfect, no matter how it appeared to an outsider.

A faint click echoed through the still night. I squinted through the hedge leaves, my eyes laser pointers on the side door Jane had emerged from only moments before. Rod appeared.

As he stepped into the dusky side yard, I thought about the people unknown to me until a week earlier: the latest neighborhood couple to pique my interest. Even though they were  technically still strangers, I’d had an entire week to learn about the Brocktons. A few passes in my car last Saturday morning revealed a tracksuit-clad Gen Xer, her wavy hair the reddish-brown color of autumn oak leaves, and a gray-haired, bespectacled boomer in crisp dark jeans and golf shirt standing on the sage-and-cream farmhouse’s front porch. Steaming mugs in hand, their calls drifted through my open car window, cautioning their little golden designer dog when it strayed too close to the street, their voices overly indulgent, as if correcting a beloved but errant child. The very picture of domestic bliss.

I studied the Colonial to the Brocktons’ right. On the front porch steps, two tremendous Boston ferns in oversized urns stretched outward like dozens of welcoming arms. The only testament to human activity. Someone obviously cared for the vigorous plants, but a midnight peek inside that house’s mailbox revealed only empty space. It made me uncomfortable not knowing who Jane’s mystery man was.

And did Rod usually wake when his wife slipped between the silk sheets (they had to be silk) after her extracurriculars? He obviously questioned her increasingly regular late-night abandonment. He wouldn’t be roaming the dark in his nightwear if he hadn’t noticed.

Perhaps Jane said she couldn’t sleep. She needed to move—walk the neighborhood—to tire herself. Hearing that, he’d frown, warning her not to wander around in the middle of the night. Rod was the type—I was sure just

by the way he coddled his dog—to worry about his lovely wife walking the dark streets, even the magical byways of Deer Crossing. Hence, the need for new places to rendezvous each night. But the shed on their very own property! Even though this night’s tryst was later than usual, it was dangerously daring to stay on-site. Maybe Jane wanted to get caught.

A scratching sound echoed through the quiet night. I looked at the side door Rod had just emerged from, saw his silhouette turn back and open it. The little dog circled him, barking sharply. The urgent yipping cut clearly through the still air, skittering my pulse. I quickly glanced at Emmy soundly sleeping in her stroller. If the dog didn’t stop barking, I’d have to get away— fast. Emmy could wake and start her colicky wailing, which would rouse the Brocktons’ neighbors whose hedge I’d appropriated. One flick of their front porch light would reveal me in all my lurking glory.

As if to answer my concerns, the dog ceased barking and scampered toward the shed. I rubbed at the sudden chill sliding across my upper arms. That little canine nose was sniffing out Jane’s trail.

Rod stepped tentatively forward. It was too dark to see what he was wearing beneath the robe, but I pictured him in L. L. Bean slippers with those heavy rubberized soles and cotton print pajamas, like Daddy used to wear. Daddy’s had line drawings of old-fashioned cars dotted across the white cotton background. Model Ts and roadsters. I felt angry with Jane all over again. How dare she . . .

“Sorry, darling,” Jane called, striding from the shadows, stopping a few feet in front of him. “I was potting those plants earlier and thought I left my cell phone in the shed.” Her voice was soft, relaxed. She was a pro.

“I saw it on the bookshelf in the study earlier this evening,” Rod said, bending to calm the little dog, who was bouncing between them like a child with ADHD.

“Oh geez, I’m losing it,” she said, laughing. Not yet, you’re not, I thought. Not yet.

Saturday, August 12

The baby’s cry jarred me out of sleep.

I fought with the down comforter, kicking free and swinging my heels over the edge of the bed before I realized there was no longer any sound coming from the adjacent room or the baby monitor. Was that good or bad? Was Emmy lying face down on the crib mattress, a victim of SIDS? Were the cries she’d managed to wake me with the last she’d ever make? I raced across the room, falling into the bedroom door, my left wrist taking the brunt of my weight. I clumsily straightened and yanked the door open with my right hand and ran from the room like a fugitive, breath coming in halting gasps.

She lay in the crib on her back. The gently slumbering infant of diaper commercials: wispy nutmeg curls; cheeks glowing through the night-light gloom like shiny copper pennies. Her chubby limbs and tiny Buddha belly enveloped in warm flannel footed pajamas with no blanket. No toys or stuffed animals crowded the enclosure; the firm, UL Greenguard Gold-and

Certipur-US certified mattress was hemmed by the Babyletto Premium crib’s perfectly proportioned slats, too close together to trap a small child’s head. I’d done my research. I took a deep breath, arms and legs shaking as the adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream dissipated. Normalcy returning in syncopated tremors. It was going to be a challenge, this day. Like all the others before it. Massaging my left wrist, I felt a sting in my smallest fingertip. Looking at the hand cradled in my other palm, I noticed the gleam of blood seeping into the ridge around my nail bed, the nail tip partially severed. Served me right. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d filed and clipped my nails, much less gotten a proper manicure.

Truth was I couldn’t recall exactly what I’d been doing during the months since Tim left, except worrying he’d take Emmy away. Now I had to endure another day. Close to fourteen hours until twilight would usher in soothing darkness. That’s when I’d gently lift Emmy from her crib or ease her out of the ever-present infant carrier strapped to my chest. I’d transfer her to the state-of-the-art babyzen buggy, complete with bassinet top. Tim had scoffed when I bought it because it had cost half a week’s salary, but it was well worth the money, encasing my precious girl in cozy warmth as the soundless wheels rolled smoothly over the paved streets.

I’d always found it soothing to explore the area. Tim and I used to take post-dinner summertime strolls when we first moved into the neighborhood, years earlier. Back when we enjoyed doing things together.

He’d quickly tired of those walks. Despite how I’d forced the issue when I became pregnant—recalling my mother’s adamant advice against letting the baby, once born, come between us—Tim stopped accompanying me. I kept at it, wandering familiar streets and discovering new routes. Keeping myself fit even before I had Emmy, yet something new sprouted in my mind. Realizations and suspicions growing like the child in my womb: Why was I spending so much time alone? Where was Tim most evenings when I returned from my strolls to our stark, empty house?

Emmy was born in January, a dangerous time to take a newborn outside in Upstate New York, but it was an unseasonably warm winter, and by

Jennifer Sadera

late March I was once again crisscrossing the streets of our development, this time with Emmy for company.

Our walks quickly became a nightly ritual, each foray into the dusky suburban streets calming us more than the previous stroll. Before long, I was walking for hours each evening, widening our horizons and building my stamina. I’d occasionally head out during daylight hours, even though there wasn’t much outdoor activity during cold winter afternoons. I preferred the anonymity of my nighttime strolls.

That was when things started to fall apart at home—or maybe it was a continuation of the downward spiral that had begun with Emmy’s refusal to nurse, my baby blues, and Tim’s inability to keep us or himself happy. I thought about his after-hour stints at the firm. He’d claimed to be overwhelmed by a new project, but he’d never had to work through the dinner hour in the early years of our marriage.

The night I found a matchbook from a local bar in Tim’s jacket pocket, I shoved Emmy in the stroller and beelined it through the front door, anger sparking my movements, spurring me through the dark streets and farther from home. That was the evening I discovered Deer Crossing, just a mile from my house. It changed everything, sparking an odyssey into a realm previously unknown to me. I’d dutifully returned from the exclusive enclave that night and all the others that followed, but I never really made it back to the place Tim and I had been before.

It was to be expected, of course. How could I settle for the dreary happenings around my house when others were living such charmed lives? These people were like my own neighbors, but younger, fitter. Happier. Especially the couple I’d been stalking lately: Barbie-and-Ken look-alikes I’d named Matt and Melanie at 21 Pine Hill Road. Just like the couples I’d noticed through their unguarded windows that very first night who’d laughed together and cuddled on sofas in front of large-screen televisions and flickering fireplaces, the positioning of Matt and Melanie’s trim, athletic bodies struck me upon first glimpse, weeks earlier: the way their entwined forms rocked in rhythm to the strains of a song I couldn’t hear, their beauty

highlighted by the warm wash of incandescent light overhead. Framed by the living-room window, their faces were a blur, but I was transfixed by how her long dark hair spilled against his cheek and mingled with his blond waves. A pang sliced at my throat, making swallowing painful. The pair was maybe a few years older than Tim and me; I couldn’t recall the last time Tim and I danced together. Perhaps our wedding reception? Why didn’t we focus on each other the way the dreamy couple in front of my greedy eyes did? I squeezed my lids shut, trying to recall my husband’s touch on my skin, but I couldn’t arouse the sensation.

I felt nothing.

i spied on them all.

Every neighbor too careless or too foolish to keep their shades drawn. Hundreds of houses on display, their interiors glowing with life and bleeding it out into the night. A hemorrhage of strangers gathered around dinner tables, texting on phones while gearing up Netflix, doing yoga. The activities were as varied as the people performing them. And that’s what it seemed like: a show, with the homes’ inhabitants cast as theatrical versions of themselves.

I needed this—the feeling of being a part of something without the responsibility of involvement. Oddly, I felt a connection to these blurry-faced strangers—a connection I hadn’t been able to maintain with Tim since before Emmy was born.

He blamed me for the divide. I knew he did. His seemingly innocent remarks rankled. Like his comment after my mom’s fatal accident when I’d been three months pregnant: Maybe you’d feel less devastated if you and your mother had gotten along better.

I stared blankly at him. “My mom was my best friend,” I’d said, amazed that her death seemed to be tearing us apart rather than bonding us in grief—especially since he hadn’t been overly fond of her.

Jennifer Sadera

And then there was his advice after the postpartum depression that had set in a week after I’d given birth: If you force yourself to get out of bed and tend to Emmy, the mother-daughter bonding will help you overcome your depression.

I snorted just thinking of his self-righteous remarks. What the hell did he know, anyway? After Dr. Ellison explained that stress, hormonal changes, and sleep deprivation had combined to create a textbook case of the baby blues, Tim grudgingly attended to Emmy amid my crying jags and unending desire for sleep.

He was always willing to do pharmacy runs. I suspected he just wanted to get out of the house, away from Emmy’s endless crying and my incessant requests for help. Hours after departing for the drugstore he’d reappear with excuses of long lines, drug shortages, pharmacist consultations. Anything to make the extended absences seem believable.

I couldn’t pronounce the name of the script Dr. Ellison had prescribed for postpartum depression, but I’d eagerly anticipate the Xanax the doctor told me to take only in emergencies. The medication calmed me far better than my husband did. Tim, watching me pop the pills like a halitosis sufferer scarfing down breath mints, scoffed at what he called my weakness.

“You can’t be hoovering those pills while you’re taking care of Emmy,” he’d complain.

“That’s why you’re here,” I’d point out. “Until I can get myself back on track.”

He’d roll his eyes and sigh. Often, he’d storm out of the house, slamming the door behind him, not returning until my frantic texts begged him to soothe our wailing child.

The postpartum meds hadn’t worked, and I wasn’t able to sleep without Xanax. Claiming to worry about the potential for drug dependence, Tim began monitoring and restricting my intake, leading to endless nights without more than an hour or two of rest, giving my waking hours a surreal, nightmarish quality. Every sound became oddly amplified, as though my ears had reverberating speakers tucked inside; morning light scorched my retinas, sending shards of throbbing brightness straight into my brain,

settling into a baseline headache that no amount of ibuprofen could touch. That was the weakness Tim so readily diagnosed. I suppressed my resentment, convincing myself he was only looking out for my health.

Exercise helped. In the soothing dark and silence of my nightly strolls, I could function normally. My stiff legs relaxed into an easy, elongated ramble, and my lungs unclenched, turning my shallow breaths into deep, full inhalations. The later my strolls stretched into the night, the more I felt like myself.

That’s when I realized how much I needed the residents of Deer Crossing. Muzzy Owen and her tribe were the first to catch my eye, and her reciprocal attention bolstered my confidence. I didn’t live in the development, but I had every right to stroll the storied streets. Lately, I’d even taken to waving at Matt as I passed him. He’d wave back if he wasn’t preoccupied by a strenuous yard task, like raking out the flower beds or mowing the lawn.

This August evening the temperature hovered around seventy degrees in low humidity. Emmy cooed like a chickadee content in its nest as I increased my speed up an incline, my arms laboring under the increased weight of the carriage. Gritting my teeth against the pain slicing through my left wrist—a reminder of my morning’s sleep-deprived plunge into my bedroom door—I focused on the exertion. It felt cleansing, just like Dr. Ellison said it would. Now that Tim no longer lived with me, I could walk the streets at any time of the day or night. I didn’t have to get back from my evening strolls before he came home. Didn’t have to figure out where he’d been while I was walking off my resentment.

Even so, Emmy needed a mother and a father, no matter our difficulties. I texted Tim every day about important child-related topics. Asking his opinion about starting Emmy on rice gruel, sharing a milestone she’d reached or a worry over a minor health issue. Even though he seldom answered me, I was determined to keep him involved in our child’s life, and eventually get him back home. I knew only too well how impossible it was to endure a childhood without a dad.

Jennifer Sadera

I scooted across the three-lane thoroughfare separating Highland Knolls, my neighborhood of modest ranches and bilevels, to Deer Crossing. Consisting of a few hundred dwellings, the upscale development had two parallel main roads leading off Route 55 and into the neighborhood: Pine Hill Road on the west side, and Woodmint Lane on the east. Connecting them at the northernmost end of each road was Primrose Way, which stretched from the bike trails at Woodmint to the pond on Lakeside, just beyond Primrose and north of Pine Hill. Each of these roads had multiple connecting paths and cul-de-sacs with winding streets and expertly landscaped lots. As I started up Woodmint, I wondered if the neighbors had banded together to create a cohesive planting plan. Even in the muted glow of the HPS streetlights, the perennials peeking around stately birches shut out the memory of the ragged, yellowing hostas lining my house’s walkway. This night I meandered, noting how the light layered over the smooth expanse of lawn extending from house to house like an unending carpet. I could discern no weeds in the seamless stretches of grass.

This should have been my life, my neighborhood. As a mechanical engineer, Tim made a decent buck, and my home-based medical-billing job helped cover the extras. My virtual position meant no childcare expenses, which was fortunate. With my parents gone and Tim’s entire family across the country in Seattle, my salary would have been swallowed by day-care costs had I been forced to commute to an office each day.

I’d wanted the big, impressive house, and we could have swung it. Our other expenses were minimal. We preferred our television to movie theaters; takeout to dining out; comfortable clothes to designer labels. And we’d been saving for the future. I’d talked about a big family, like the four-sibling clan Tim had been raised in, not the sad little twosome that had comprised most of my childhood. But my husband decided for us both that prudence was called for. We’d start in a house we could afford rather than live in a “monstrosity” we’d struggle to make payments on.

I’d reluctantly agreed to our simple two-bedroom ranch on Tim’s assurance that as our salaries and family grew, we’d expand to a bigger place.

Seemed like a good plan, until my mother died, and my world began to unravel. Now the modest house felt like a condemnation. I needed a home like the one we’d envisioned ourselves eventually living in, a validation of sorts. No chance I’d ever have it unless I could get Tim back.

At the end of Woodmint, I’d eventually turn left onto Primrose Way and pass Muzzy’s house at the other end of that street, near Pine Hill. With any luck she’d be outside, maybe sitting on her front porch. It was early enough—much earlier than most of my treks into the neighborhood. I walked faster, my gaze lasered once again on the Brocktons’ sage farmhouse as I neared it. One low light was on in the living room. I glanced at the completely dark Colonial next door, which I recalled was the tawny tone of a caramel chewy in daylight.

“Good evening,” came a female voice from somewhere in the shadows. Jane Brockton.

I jumped, heart slamming into breastbone. A dark figure stood like a sentinel at the end of the driveway, next to the mailbox. “Oh, uh, hello.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said, stepping forward. Her tone suggested otherwise.

“No, that’s okay, I’m just . . .” I trailed off, my pounding heart making breathing and speaking at the same time impossible.

“You spend an awful lot of time on this street, don’t you?”

She’d noticed my snooping. My mind clicked into survival mode, sending desperate messages to my mouth.

“Well, you know how it is with colicky babies.” I looked down at the carriage and back at her advancing form. “Whatever it takes to get them to sleep.”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t have children.” Jane’s tone sounded oddly challenging. “What’s the baby’s name?”

“Emmy,” I said, my quivering voice hinting at my reluctance to tell her anything about myself.

She stopped a few feet in front of me and raised her hand, which held an iPhone. She turned on the built-in flashlight, creating a harsh halo of light

Jennifer Sadera

around her stunning figure. I’d clearly not been able to properly appreciate her attractiveness from a distance. “May I take a peek?”

Seriously? She wants to shine a high-intensity beam into my infant’s face? Good thing she doesn’t have children. I raised the bassinet hood, an urgency to get away from her overwhelming me. “I just got her to sleep; she’s hypersensitive to light.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. Perhaps she wanted a child and Rod was unwilling or unable to provide any for her. He was, after all, a good bit older than she was. She stepped back, giving me the impression of a balloon deflating slightly. “You’ll have to stroll by in the daytime when the baby’s awake.” She accented the word daytime

“I’ll do that,” I promised, pressing on the carriage handle.

“I’m Jane, by the way.”

“Alice,” I lied. “Nice to meet you,” I called over my shoulder as I started to walk away.

“You look like that woman who used to go to Muzzy Owen’s house.” Her voice had a hard edge that sent a shiver down my spine. “But her name wasn’t Alice.”

I froze. “You know Muzzy?” I tried to suppress the surprise in my voice.

“I know everyone in this neighborhood. But I don’t know you.”

“Well, I don’t actually live here.”

“I know that. I can follow people too. Your name is Caroline, so why would you tell me it’s Alice?”

My throat went dry. I turned toward her, my legs shaking. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Then don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t even know you,” I held my hand up. “I never tell strangers my name.”

“You’re the stranger here, and I’d prefer you keep it that way. Stick to your own neighborhood. Keep your stroller, your car, and yourself off these streets. You don’t belong here.”

Her petty threat burst my fear like a soap bubble.

Who the hell was she to tell me where I could stroll my child? I lowered my chin until my gaze was level with hers. “I can walk wherever I please. If you have a problem with that, too bad.”

“You need to mind your own business. Keep your nose out of—” “Out of what?” I sighed, impatience warring with the good manners my mother instilled in me. “Your business looks like a lot more fun than mine.”

Jane’s mouth dropped and I could see her face redden in the ambient light from her cell phone, now glowing beside her thigh where she’d dropped her hand. Before she could sputter out a reply, I turned on my heel and headed down the street, vigorously pushing the stroller ahead of me.

Was that a good idea? asked a voice. The voice that sounded like my mother’s.

“Probably not,” I muttered. But it felt fantastic to tell her off. I couldn’t properly catch my breath until I was in front of Muzzy’s dark house. So, Jane had followed me home one evening? So much for my stealth. Gazing at the shadowy box that was Muzzy’s house, I wondered if my former BFF had filled Jane in on my story. Sadness encircled me like a heavy woolen cape, weighing me down and notching my body temperature up a good ten degrees. I didn’t care. Even if my one-time friend had gossiped all over the neighborhood about me, I deserved it. And it would be a small price to pay to get Muzzy Owen back in my life.

My gaze lingering on the dark house, I walked on. Ignoring the trickle of the fountain in the loathsome pond to my right, I turned left onto Pine Hill Road and approached Matt and Melanie’s house on the corner. A porch light flicked on, illuminating the 21 over the front door, which was open to reveal the profiles of two people. Melanie, her long tresses recently chopped to her shoulders, thrust her arms around the shoulders of a tall, dark-haired man and pressed herself intimately against him.

“I don’t care,” she declared. “Let him find out about us. Let them all find out!”

I paused, staring. The man in Melanie’s arms was not the fair-haired Matt.

Jennifer Sadera

“Don’t say that, it’s dangerous,” warned the man, not returning her embrace. He shot a furtive glance toward the street, his eyes catching mine. Alarm crossed his features, followed by anger. With one hand he reached out and caught the edge of the door in his grasp, slamming it firmly shut.

I startled, but I wasn’t sure whether it was surprise or my own anger that made me flinch.

How dare she do that to Matt! She has everything! Good God, she’s no better than slimy Jane Brockton!

Available now, wherever books are sold.

be careful what you see when you shouldn’t be looking.

Residents of the posh Upstate New York neighborhood of Deer Crossing enjoy all the amenities wealth provides. From drive-up dog-grooming to monthly botox parties, these lucky suburbanites have everything they could ever want–and one thing they don’t want: Caroline Case, who wheels her infant along their streets each night with just one goal . . . to spy on anyone too careless or too foolish to close their window blinds.

C onvinced the owners of the impressive homes are living a dream existence, the troubled new mom hopes to escape her working-class life by prying secrets from the unsuspecting. But the fairy tale twists into a nightmare when she sees something she shouldn’t. Something that shatters her illusions about the people in the privileged community she’s obsessed with, even as she begins to doubt what she saw.

As Caroline investigates the event, shocking secrets are laid bare, and nothing is as it seems. She knows she must prove something sinister occurred in Deer Crossing or risk letting someone get away with murder.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Cover Artwork: 802290022, Combo1982, FotoDuets

Fiction / Thriller

Eternal youth is not a blessing but a curse.

Naissa Nolan is a happy child in 1850s Philadelphia—until tragedy strikes while she and her family are on holiday. Alone and heartbroken, she is thrust into an immortal life she never bargained for or imagined. Naissa spends the next few centuries on Earth—and beyond—desperate to learn more about her condition. While working with the esteemed Oberlin Institute in Vienna, she makes an important discovery that could change everything.

But trusting the wrong people is a mistake, and Naissa’s immortal life enters a new chapter she never anticipated.

Renée Schaeffer has always been fascinated by technology and where it may lead us. A lifelong New Yorker, she has been found reading her prose at open mic nights in Manhattan. She married her childhood sweetheart and raised three happy, successful children. Her favorite author’s moment is the time she met famed science fiction writer, Olivia Butler, in a Greenwich Village bakery specializing in goods made by the homeless, and discussed with Ms. Butler the inspirations behind her books. Ageless is Renée’s debut novel.

if only time were on her side.

AGELESS

Renée Schaeffer

AGELESS

Renée Schaeffer

AGELESS

AGELESS

Renée Schaeffer

Renée Schaeffer

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Fort Collins, Colorado 80524

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2024 by Renée Schaeffer

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524.

Paperback ISBN 9780744310023

eBook ISBN 9780744310047

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request

Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Interior artwork by Dencake, Ganna Bozhko, George Peters, Lyubov Ovsyannikova

5 3 1 2 4

For my grandmother, Gertrude Jenny Gorman, who loved me best. And for David Levine, my husband and best friend.

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

—Confucius

TIME. FOR MOST of my life, others thought of it as the ticking of a clock carrying change relentlessly forward. There was never enough time. It could fly away. Time was for memories, and for dreams of the future. It was the precious, tenuous, present moment. Some had plenty on their hands, others wasted it.

Many years later, people would look at time differently. Time became as bountiful as the universe. It became the air. Time was irrelevant. It was ignored.

But for me, time is beyond those things. Time is—and has always been —my immortal enemy, the cause of my grief. Battling the monster gives me strength to fight life’s brutal blows. It gives me the power to find equanimity when it all goes off the rails.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE at Hyde Park, London, was the site of the first world’s fair, the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations of 1851. Produced by Sir Charles Cole and Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, the Exhibition showcased cutting-edge industrial technologies from the Western world.

Among these were the world’s first modern pay toilets, which cost one penny to lock. Charles Darwin, who attended the Great Exhibition, published On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection in 1859, generating international debate, acclaim, and calls of heresy.

In the United States, railroads began to replace canals, and rumblings of secession by Southern states burgeoned. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin vilified slavery and was all but banned in the South. John Brown attempted a slave revolt in Harpers Ferry in the Shenandoah Valley and failed, becoming a martyr for the abolitionist cause.

By 1861, Confederate secessionists defeated Federal forces at Fort Sumter, initiating four years of the bloodiest war on American soil, leaving up to a million dead.

Naissa

In 1850, the year I was born, most American babies enjoyed names derived from British royalty or the Bible. My first name, Naissa, which means rebirth, was a little out of the ordinary. Perhaps my parents were giving homage to the Renaissance or displaying some sort of inexplicable presentiment. Sadly, I never thought to ask why they chose Naissa.

My father, John Nolan, was descended from a long line of Irish silverand goldsmiths who had settled in Philadelphia early in the eighteenth century. My father’s contribution to the family jewelry business was exquisite design. Finely wrought Nolan jewelry and tableware were in demand by the haut monde across the country.

Father often invited me to his workshop to watch him turn metals into his jewelry designs. My job was buffing finished jewelry with a soft cloth. I loved the workshop’s smells of oil and solder and the sound of his hammer tapping against the small anvil. In the summer, however, I did not like to visit on days when the hot forge was running.

My paternal grandfather, Patrick Nolan, my only grandparent still alive when I was born, had bucked family tradition and been an attorney of some renown before he retired and lived with us.

He tended the grape arbor adjacent to our large garden, as well as several beehives from which he harvested the most delicious honey. While I couldn’t speak for Grandfather’s wines, his grape juice was fit for a queen and the best part of autumn.

My mother, whom Father called Maggie but whose name was Margaret, adored numbers. Keeping the household and business books was a chore for most people, but not for Mother. She could find numbers in just about everything: a honeycomb, the shell of a chambered nautilus, or peppermints in a crystal candy bowl. No one was her match at the billiards table, much to the chagrin of any visiting gentleman foolish enough to accept an invitation to play. There was always a book by Mother’s side or in her skirt pocket.

I remember one sunny afternoon when I was walking in the park with Mother and Father and a young woman in a lavender frock stopped us, thanking my mother for donating funds to send her to school. The woman said she was employed as a secretary and would never forget Mother’s generosity. Throughout my childhood, such scenes were not uncommon. When we camped outside at our country house, which we did often in the summer, the best times were at the campfire after dinner. We would sing songs and toast nuts and popcorn. I would watch Mother and Father exchanging little smiles that made them both glow. Sometimes Father would sneakily reach out to hold Mother’s hand when he thought no one was looking. It was as if their love were a warm, invisible blanket wrapped around me, making me feel secure and happy.

My sixth birthday was a morning to remember. I awoke with the sun, and my little sister, Trudy, who was three years old, was still sleeping. I could not wait for my celebration day to begin. I quietly opened the shutters and marveled at the golds and pinks painted across the sky, the sun a fireball peeking from behind Jessup’s Hill. The awakening world was new and fresh. I stretched out my arms and twirled until I fell down laughing. Trudy woke and rubbed her eyes with tiny fists and climbed down from our canopied bed to kiss me.

“Happy birthday, Naissa!”

Kissing Trudy back on her soft face, I said, “Thank you. I am sorry I awakened you.”

Just then, Father and Mother came into our room.

“Happy birthday, Naissa!” they said together. I gave each of them a hug.

“Now that you are six, I would like you to have something of mine,” Mother said, handing me a small parcel.

Lying in tissue paper was a sky-blue porcelain egg standing on three golden legs and decorated with ivory angels. Lifting the egg’s lid, I found a

Renée Schaeffer

ring of lace spun from silver. It had a diamond in the center and a sapphire heart on either side. The ring fit perfectly.

Mother touched the ring tenderly. “My mother, who died before you were born, gave me this ring for my sixth birthday. I pray it brings you as much happiness as it did me and that someday you will pass it on to your own daughter.”

“Oh, thank you, Mother!” When Mother wrapped me in her arms, her love filled me with joy.

Trudy and I skipped and danced together around the room. At three and six years old, we had become inseparable. Everyone said that except for my brunette hair and Trudy’s red, we looked like twins.

On bad weather days, our bed became the Enchanted Bed taking Trudy and me on adventures in which we became anyone we chose and experienced whatever we wanted. The Enchanted Bed took us to ancient Greece and into the mysterious future.

At times, the bed was a cloud upon which we ascended to heaven. The angels played their harps for us and lent us their wings so we could fly down over our house and around the world.

After saying goodnight and sharing hugs and kisses with Grandfather, Mother, and Father, we nestled under the covers for our last adventure of the day. Trudy and I whispered to each other until our eyes could stay open no longer, and the Enchanted Bed transported us through the starry night and into our dreams.

When I was ten, Father and I worked together on a brooch for Mother’s birthday. The design was a silver framework shaped like a lilac spray, where each tiny blossom was a cut amethyst.

After I’d watched him create the framework and solder on its hammered leaves, Father said, with a smile, “Now, Naissa, are you ready to begin mounting the blossoms?”

With excitement, I watched as Father opened the safe and removed his sparkle box, a small chest of polished walnut inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Setting the box on the workbench, he unlatched and lifted the lid. Nestled

in lush, purple velvet were a rainbow of gems, all to be used in the jewelry he made. Father handed me a satin pouch from the box, and I poured its contents onto one of the black velvet-lined trays on the workbench. A hundred tiny gems glinted in shades from light to darkest purple.

“The crystal from which these stones were cut came from a one-metertall Russian geode.” Father handed me his brass loupe. “The color is brilliant. If you look closely, you can see there are virtually no imperfections in the crystal. They are the highest quality.”

I held the small device to my eye and bent forward until a few gems were in focus. The stones were like the finest glass, transparent and without a single striation.

“We will mount each one and then solder them to the framework,” Father said. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes!” I said eagerly. And we got to work.

My first efforts at mounting the gems were clumsy, but Father was a patient teacher. We worked two days, and by the afternoon of Mother’s birthday, we were finished. We put the brooch in a velvet Nolan Jewelers box, which I gave to Mother at dinner.

Mother opened the box and gasped. “Oh, this is exquisite! My favorite, lilacs. I thank you with all my heart. I shall wear this with pride.”

I beamed as Father pinned the brooch on Mother’s dress. She scooped me into a tight embrace.

“Darling Naissa, I shall treasure your gift always. I love you so much, my sweet one.”

Exactly one year later, I was eleven years old and in a foreign land when a black curtain dropped, ravaging my childhood. My entire family was torn from me.

Every one of them, gone: Mother. Father. Grandfather. Even Trudy, my best friend and playmate, only eight years old.

We had steamed to France for an autumn holiday to celebrate Mother’s birthday away from the troubles between the states. The days were brisk and sunny as we explored the streets of Paris amid the sharp, earthy smell of fallen leaves mingled with the delicious aromas from patisseries and cafés. Our lodging was at Brodeur Inn on Rue de la Paix, near the heart of the city and overlooking the breathtaking Tuileries Garden. The innkeeper, Madame Brodeur, took a liking to Trudy and me. While Mother’s and Father’s attention was elsewhere, she snuck us hard butterscotch candies, which she retrieved from her skirt pockets as her silver and agate bracelets softly clinked.

For Mother’s birthday, my family went to a luxurious restaurant known for its fresh seafood and views of the Seine and Notre-Dame Cathedral. Dinner was magnificent. Everyone agreed our favorites were the buttery escargots and mussels mariniere. Mother’s birthday cake was almost too pretty to eat: a tree of pastry balls and wispy threads of spun caramel nestled in a wreath of silvered leaves and wheeled to our table on a shiny brass trolley.

After dinner we went across the river to tour the cathedral, and I was disappointed that scaffolding hid much of the facade’s gargoyles and other carvings I had seen in books. Once inside the cathedral, the explosion of color was entrancing: the late afternoon sun shone through multihued windows and painted the floors in rainbow brilliance.

When Mother tucked me in that night, holding me close and giving me my goodnight kiss, she smelled odd. There was a strange, sour odor underneath Mother’s usual lilac fragrance as she whispered, “Sweet dreams, my darling Naissa.” I told Mother I loved her.

Awakened by a nightmare of sound rising out of my dreams, I became aware that Mother was screaming in the bed next to me as she held Trudy, who hung limp as a sock doll from her arms. Trudy’s face was oddly blue in the lamplight, her lips dark. A thick string of spittle hung from the corner of her mouth. Mother just screamed and screamed. I jumped up to get Father, but when I saw the door to Grandfather’s adjoining room ajar, I changed course. Entering the room, I froze when I saw Father weeping by Grand-

father’s bed. The old man lay hanging half off the bed, bedclothes askew, his nightshirt immodestly high. Grandfather’s open lips were the color of indigo ink in his ashen face, and his eyes stared at nothing.

I ran back to Mother, only to find her whimpering and trying to speak. Trudy slowly sank out of her arms and back onto the bed. Mother, voicing unintelligible words and looking around wildly, did not seem to know I was there.

“Mother! Mother, I am here,” I sobbed, grabbing her arm. Mother brought a trembling hand to my cheek, but quickly moved it to her eyes. She poked her eyeball and blinked hard, as if surprised she had done such a thing. Moaning and reaching out again to me, Mother groped, but looked over my head. A cold grip of panic tightened around me—Mother could not see. She kept trying to say something, but the words came out as if in another language. Then she vomited and began gasping for breath from bluing lips, her mouth moving as I had seen fish do when too long out of water.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” Suddenly, Madame Brodeur was in front of me, pushing me aside and helping Mother sit on the bed. This was a futile effort because Mother kept sliding over and down, as if she had turned into one of the marionettes we had seen at the street theater. Tears dripped from Mother’s bulging eyes.

Then Father was beside us, his face overcome with horror. “Maggie!” He knelt by the bed and held Mother’s hand. There was nothing we could do but watch as Mother drifted away, her gasping breaths coming farther and farther apart until at last they were no more. “Oh, Maggie,” Father murmured.

Mother! How will I survive without your kisses?

It was impossible to believe she would never hold me again, never whisper how she loved me more than rainbows and stars. And never again would I play with my sister, never hug her when she trembled in the dark. And Grandfather, how I would miss his smell of tobacco and peppermint and the rough prickle of his whiskers.

“Father, what is happening?” I wished with all my heart for Father to tell me this was only a bad dream.

Father staggered to his feet, wavering as if he had played too many games of ring-around-the-rosy. He tried to speak, but his words were nonsense. Father clutched Madame’s hand and looked at her beseechingly, and then looked at me.

She said, “Oui, yes, I shall take care of her; do not worry.”

He staggered to his room. Mme Brodeur told me to stay in her rooms while she summoned a doctor, but I wanted to be with Father. She put her hands on my face and said, “Pauvre enfant,” but I knew I was not a poor child; Father had always said we were Philly big bugs. I believed he would tell her so himself when he was better.

But Father did not get better. My once strong and indomitable father lay dying. “Father,” I begged, “please do not leave me. Father, please!”

Father’s mouth formed words with no sound. Grabbing Father, I held him tight, as though I could keep his life from flowing away. But my embrace was no match for death’s. In a stillness so deep I was lost in it, I watched with weeping, aching eyes as Father’s features softened into blankness. I put my ear to his lips, but there was no breath at all. Father had left his body and had left me with nothing but emptiness. I cried and cried and could not stop.

The next day after a brief chapel service, I found myself walking down the streets of Paris behind a pair of black, ornate carriages, their horses’ hooves clattering upon the cobblestones. At the cemetery, the clergyman’s nauseating cologne overpowered his words. I watched as a huge hole swallowed four ebony coffins, three large and one small.

Leaning over the maw, I whispered, “Trudy, dear sister, do not be afraid of the dark.” Now, Trudy had to sleep alone.

I was emptied bit by bit as three workers threw shovelful after shovelful of French dirt onto my beautiful family. Then, sweat-drenched and dripping, the men levered a massive, granite slab over the grave.

Madame lay a small bouquet on the stone. She said gently, her voice far away, “By God’s grace, enfant, you have been spared. Viens, Naissa, let

us go.” She tried to take my hand, but my fists were buried in the pockets of my cloak. An enormity of dirt and granite were piled upon my chest, so how could I move?

Somehow, I turned my back and walked away from my family.

On the way out of the cemetery, I paused in front of a stone woman sitting on a pedestal with her face in her hands, grieving. My own grief reached out to hers and joined in recognition.

That night, at Madame’s, I lay sleepless, envisioning my family in the blackness of their earth-covered coffins. When breathing became difficult, I moved my visions out of the dark: Mother, her smile showering me in endless love, and wearing the brooch I had given her and that she now wore in her grave; Father, whose whiskers smelled of orange blossom and bergamot and whose eyes twinkled more than gems, waltzing with me in the parlor; Grandfather, deep in his grape arbor, clipping lush bunches from the vines, smiling at me as the sun dappled his face.

I remembered Trudy at night in our big bed, our arms wrapped around each other as we whispered stories and secrets. I remembered how joyfully she had played at various roles, especially that of mother to her doll babies. But now, Trudy would never have the chance to grow up, to live her life. Where were they? In heaven with the angels, as Trudy and I had imagined? Could they see me?

I wished with all my heart to be with them so we could go on adventures together once more. Trudy and I would run and play and watch people like tiny ants in the world below.

But no. They were all under the ground. Trudy was sleeping alone in her box, without me. In my mind, I climbed into Trudy’s dark and cold, lonely casket and lay with her. Although my heart still beat, I was dead, too.

My Uncle James Leighton and his wife, Aunt Josephine, came to fetch me back to Philadelphia. Because Aunt Josephine bore an unsettling

resemblance to her sister, my beautiful, red-haired mother, I could hardly look into her hazel eyes without my raw wounds bleeding anew. I was told that the gangling and humorless Uncle James had been appointed my guardian. This deepened my melancholy because he and Aunt Josephine had always been overly formal and cold toward my family.

One luncheon at the captain’s table soon after we embarked, the steward offered potted mussels to Aunt Josephine. She recoiled. “Oh dear, no! Are you trying to poison me? Take those monstrosities away at once!” She turned to Uncle James and sniffed, “The nerve! Everyone knows what happened to my dear father and sister. One should think the chef would be more considerate.” She glowered at me from under her feathered hat.

Unsure why, I felt as if I had done something wrong. Then, her words struck home. The mussels. My stomach roiled.

“Please excuse me, Uncle, I feel ill,” I begged of Uncle James, and ran from the table the instant he nodded assent. In my cabin, I cried myself to sleep.

I returned to America across an ocean of sorrow. Every day, I stood at the ship’s stern and gazed at the dark expanse. As the distance widened between me and those I loved and had left behind in a French cemetery, a numbing emptiness spread and I knew that a large part of me, the part I recognized, was vanishing into the past along with my family.

The Leighton house felt barren, despite being elegantly appointed and full of bustling servants. My aunt and uncle had a daughter my age, Claudia, whom I had met a few times before. Claudia attended a posh boarding school in Vienna but had stayed home that fall because of illness. Now recovered, Cousin Claudia disregarded me, and complained bitterly to her mother about any attention I was given. Claudia became visibly annoyed when people remarked that we looked like sisters. It bothered me, too. Trudy was my sister.

I pined for my real family as time ticked on. Food tasted like cardboard, and even my corset began to hang loose. Most days, I was left to fend for myself.

No one ever went into the Leightons’ library, so I spent hours there reading from the collection of books whose crisp pages seemed untouched by human hands. It was difficult to focus on the words. Gazing out over the library garden where leaves rustled in the crackling aftermath of the season’s growth, I found it painful to focus on my future.

One afternoon, the stern housekeeper discovered my library hideaway and admonished me to take good care of the valuable books. After that, the housemaid would sneak me tea and small cakes or warm biscuits with honey, saying she had been sent by the housekeeper. Otherwise, I was left alone and empty in the depths of my despair.

A few things from home had been brought to my room at the Leightons’, including Father’s sparkle box. With shaking hands, I unlocked the box with its silver key. It was empty, save for a gold, heart-shaped locket with intertwined hearts etched on front, Trudy’s initials on the back, and two photographs on the inside. One was of Mother and Father, smiling, and the other of Trudy and me. Father must have made the locket for Trudy’s next birthday. Donning the necklace and pressing the locket against my skin, I received some of the comfort I so badly needed. I would wear the locket most of my life.

At Christmas Eve dinner with the extended family, Aunt Josephine announced that after the holidays, I was to join Claudia at school in Vienna. The table murmured with approval. My Uncle William, Mother’s elder brother, was the only one who spoke up.

“Surely,” he said firmly, looking from my aunt to Uncle James, “the poor child ought to stay home with family until her grief abates. Look at her, she looks like a wisp of vapor. And with the War Between the States, traveling has risks.”

I loved Uncle William from that moment on.

Aunt Josephine disregarded her brother and Uncle James booked Claudia’s and my passage on a stately ocean liner. On our carriage ride to the ship’s mooring, I contemplated an unfamiliar life outside the country. I did not know whether I was more heartened to be getting away from the

Leighton house or frightened of living alone in another strange place. What would it be like going to school in Vienna? Claudia, who hated me, was the only person I would know. I did not allow myself to cry.

Aunt and Uncle had invited their coterie to an ostentatious bon voyage party on board so all might see how well I was treated. Their guests murmured approvingly as they toured the ship and were impressed by our large stateroom and its fine furnishings.

A long, linen-covered table, adorned with golden candelabra and centered with a glistening dolphin sculpted from ice, was laden with oysters on the half shell, roasted beef, poached fish in aspic, sweetmeats, and sundry exotic morsels. Multitudes of yellow and white orchids graced the room. The wartime ostentation was startling.

An elegantly dressed woman—I think she was one of Uncle James’s sisters, judging by her excessive height and thin frame—approached me carrying a small plate with a sampling of the delicacies.

“Naissa, dear child, why don’t you have some of this lovely food?” Her eyes were kind as she proffered the plate.

“Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the offering even though I was far from hungry. The few bites I managed to eat became a lump in my stomach, and I fought both nausea and tears. Easing into a corner chair, I lost myself in happier times.

We were camping at our country summer house. Grandfather and I had foraged for wild leeks and fiddleheads while Trudy and Father fished.

Grandfather was stooped over, motionless, cradling something in his hand.

“Naissa, come here—slowly,” he said quietly.

I approached, and his treasure was revealed: a dragonfly perched on his first finger, ashine in iridescent blues and greens. Its wings flashed the rainbow as they flickered in sunlight. The matchstick-long creature ran a foreleg over its head from back to front, back to front, grooming itself.

“Class and order?” Grandfather whispered.

“Insecta,” I answered promptly, but paused to consider the order. Neither hymenoptera nor lepidoptera, but . . . “Odonata!” I exclaimed, triumphant. The

dragonfly, startled by my voice, darted away, settling in the middle of an amethyst cluster of wild bergamot.

“Dragonflies are marvelous creatures,” Grandfather said as we walked on to a large oak at the edge of the field. “They are pure predator. They can snatch a mosquito out of the air quick as lightening. And fast! They say the darners, family Aeshnidae, are faster than a racehorse.” He stopped by the oak. “Let’s wait here, in the shade. They should be along any minute.”

After we sat down in the cool beneath the tree’s canopy and Grandfather dabbed his forehead with his kerchief, he asked, “Do you know what sort of oak this is?”

I looked up. The sun sparkled through the rustling leaves, and squirrels scampered and chittered among the thick branches. Each leathery leaf had six or so deep lobes.

“A white oak?” I ventured.

“Excellent guess. This is a tricky one, because white oaks are similar. This old beauty is a pin oak. You can tell because the lobes are sharply pointed, like pins.”

Just then, we heard laughter from across the field by the stream. Father and Trudy were walking up the hill toward us. Trudy started running and I jumped up to meet her.

We collided like puppies and rolled laughing in the grass. My knee burned from where it grazed a rock. I stopped to pull up my trouser leg, which now had grass stains and a small tear. I was glad Mother allowed Trudy and me to dress in boys’ trousers for these adventures so we would not muss our good dresses. I watched as the crimson scrapes quickly faded, and pulled the trouser leg back down as Father approached.

“Watch out, my rough-and-tumble sons!” Father feigned shock at our behavior and then laughed, tousling Trudy’s thick, red mane. “Come on, girls, let us fetch Grandfather and head back to the campsite. We shall cook these fish for dinner.” He held up a string of glistening trout.

After we returned to the campsite, Grandfather stoked the fire with wood Trudy and I had collected earlier. Father and Grandfather were cleaning fish

when Mother arrived carrying a hamper. She and Cook must have finished canning tomatoes. I ran up to her.

“Mother, Mother! Guess what? This morning Trudy and I pretended we were explorers and look what I found!” I dug into my pocket to produce my treasure: several flint arrowheads and a long, fluted spearpoint made from obsidian.

“Oh my, these are beautiful, Naissa! I would guess the spearpoint is Lenape, and very old. Very rare.”

“That is what Grandfather said. He said they used it to fish and hunt.”

“You are a good hunter yourself, my darling.” Mother bent down to hug me in a snug embrace. I breathed in her scent of fresh soap and lilacs, and my heart sang with joy.

The minute the guests departed, Aunt Josephine whispered something to Sylvia, Claudia’s maidservant and our chaperone.

Josephine’s voice jolted me from my memories. She faced us. “Claudia, Naissa, I expect you to attend your studies to the utmost of your abilities.”

Before either of us could do more than utter a feeble, “Yes, ma’am,” she turned on her heel and was gone, a waft of verbena and the swish of silk skirts lingering for a moment in the space she left behind.

I went out to the rail. People around me held onto streamers and tossed the other ends to the crowd on the pier. Everyone held their ends until the ship pulled away and the streamers broke. I, too, was breaking—from sorrow, loneliness, and apprehension.

The air itself trembled. I lingered on deck even while the sky began to writhe, and huge, bruised thunderheads grew ripe to disgorge their innards. The sea breezes became winds blowing straight through my clothing until my insides were gust-whipped and brined. Evaporating. The salt I tasted was more than sea mist.

I wiped my eyes and made my way back to the stateroom. While changing for supper, Claudia and I stood in front of the looking glass and silently arranged our hair. We did appear to be sisters, with our brunette hair and hazel eyes. But that was where the similarities ended. Claudia was two months younger than I but looked mature and statuesque for her age. Her

navy ensemble was well pressed and sophisticated. Shorter, less developed, and thin, I was a little girl next to her. I felt awkward and self-conscious in my smocked, yellow dress.

That night, I threw myself onto my bed and thought about a terrifying nightmare I had when I was five years old. No matter how I strained, I could only remember it was about being a grown-up with an unhappy life. My life was already unhappy. My tears wouldn’t stop.

Among the throng meeting the ship in Trieste, Italy, was one of our schoolteachers sent to accompany Claudia and me on the train to Vienna. She was middle-aged with a genial face, her graying hair pulled back in a thick bun.

“Herzlich willkommen, I am pleased to see you again, Miss Leighton,” she exclaimed as she shook Claudia’s hand before turning to me. “And this must be Miss Nolan. Willkommen. I am Frau Klein. I teach the German language at Miss Sinclair’s English School for Girls. I wish you a fruitful and pleasant stay at our school. My, my, you and Claudia could be sisters.”

“How do you do, Frau Klein? What a lovely thing for you to say.” I curtsied while thinking that looking like Claudia was not lovely at all, especially with that sour look on her face.

Too agitated to sleep the previous night, I dozed for most of the long train ride. When we arrived in Vienna, Frau Klein ushered us to a waiting carriage. The driver, a freckle-faced boy, helped the three of us in and then loaded the trunks and travel bags.

The view on our bumpy ride to Miss Sinclair’s School consisted of farms and vineyards occasionally interrupted by patches of old forest. After about an hour, the carriage slowed.

My breath caught at a Baroque building fifty feet ahead. It stood monsterlike in the gloom, its many eyes glowering. As we drew closer, I saw the eyes were numerous small windows with faces pressed against them. I released my breath.

Most of the girls, having been at school since autumn, ran out to greet us. Claudia jumped out of the carriage to meet them, but I hung back, watching the reunions. Frau Klein introduced me to the group and ushered me inside.

A smothering, claustrophobic sensation pervaded the building. The tiny dark rooms contained too much heavy furniture and smelled of mustiness and decayed possibilities. At night, the window was a mirror in which I tried to fathom my future but saw only my own sad, glittering eyes. My room had one pleasing feature, discovered only when spring arrived: the window looked out on a shapely maple tree. Its leaves, like green butterfly wings, reflected the sun’s rays as fluttery glints of my happier past.

As I readied for breakfast the next morning, there was a soft rapping on my door. When I swung it open, a girl about my age was standing there.

“Good morning! I am Anna Winchester, from across the hall.” She gestured to her room’s door. “You are Miss Nolan, are you not? You may call me Anna. Do you know where the dining hall is? I could show you. May I accompany you to breakfast?”

I did not know where the dining hall was but was not keen on company at the moment.

“I am not quite ready. Perhaps I could—”

“Oh wonderful!” She brushed past me and sat herself on my reading chair. “I will wait. Say, I heard you are from Philadelphia. I hail from New York City. Do you have Parisian fashions in Philadelphia as we do in my city? We have the most wonderful fashions. I must show you the most divine bonnet I acquired over the holiday. May I help you with your hair?”

I looked at the hairbrush in my hand. It was all too much for me.

“Anna, I am sorry. It seems the long journey has suddenly caught up with me. I feel an urgent need to rest. Perhaps we will meet at dinner.”

In the early days of school, Anna and others tried to connect with me, but I felt like an outsider who had nothing in common with them or their happy lives. Discussions of hair ribbons or so-and-so’s inheritance meant nothing in the face of my grief. If I were to be honest, I also feared losing

anyone I might come to care for. As a result of my standoffishness, the others began to ignore me.

For some reason, I made George, the boy who had been our carriage driver, an exception. Twelve days after my arrival, we met again on a Sunday afternoon when he saw me reading behind the stables, under a pair of ancient fir trees. Hearing the gravel crunch, I looked up and saw him walking toward me, his hair bleached almost white by the sun. His lack of a coat and cap made me shiver beneath my cloak.

George’s smile lit his face and eyes, melting away my melancholy. His breath came in clouds as he said with a faint German accent, “I beg pardon, miss. Perhaps you remember me? I was your driver to the school. My name is George Johnson, eldest son of the Reverend George Johnson.” He gave a slight bow. “I work for Miss Sinclair after school and on weekends, to help provide for my family. May I—may I speak with you?”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Johnson. My name is Miss Nolan. It would be my pleasure to speak with you.”

“Why do you sit here by yourself, miss?” Although surprised at his forwardness, I appreciated his earnest manner. Well, if he could be forward, then so could I.

“I am uncomfortable with the other girls.” Yet I was not uncomfortable with him, and we appeared to be of similar age.

Surprise flashed across George’s face before he gave me a quick, lopsided smile that begot a deep dimple in his left cheek.

He nodded toward my book. “When I am able to find solitude and time, I also enjoy reading. If I may ask, miss, what other pursuits do you fancy?”

“I like exploring the outdoors. And you?”

“It seems we have similar interests, miss. I have found some wonderful places not far from here. Would you care to see them? I could show you.”

It was against the rules to be in the company of a young man without an escort. I looked around and saw no other students or teachers. The possibility of an outdoor adventure rekindled a spot in my heart that had been dark for long months.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Johnson. I should like that very much. But only if you call me Naissa from here on.”

With that same half-smile, George answered, “Of course, Miss Naissa. And please call me George.”

“Very well, George. I must don my boots and gymnastics costume. I shall be right back.” Once in my room and breathless from running, I cursed the slowness of my fingers as I untied my crinolette. Trudy and I used to be so free in our trousers whenever we played outside. Feeling gratitude for Mother allowing us that freedom, I laced and buttoned my gymnastic pantaloons and shift, and, last, pulled on my new Aigle Wellingtons. Redone, I stepped out the door and tried not to run.

When I returned to the fir trees, George had a lantern. He led me to a secret cave he had discovered two miles from Miss Sinclair’s. As we crawled through the cave’s small opening, the light receded and darkness assailed me. It was not a shadowy or hazy darkness one’s eyes could adjust to, but a world of deep and utter black. A darkness that contained who-knows-what kind of horrible monsters that reached out to touch me with icy fingers, whispering of their hunger.

All at once, I heard fluttering from above, and something brushed my cheek. I screamed and grabbed for George, but then laughed at my foolishness when I realized it was only a bat.

George lit the lantern. Wondrous, otherworldly glory! All around us shone marble-like walls, ceilings, and floors with lustrous rock icicles— stalactites—growing from them. There were many limestone formations, some shaped like castles, flowers, and mythical creatures. It was a fairyland, and well worth the tongue-lashing I later received from Miss Sinclair for my unchaperoned adventure.

The following Sunday, not caring about the consequences, I went on another trek with George. He led us deeper into the cave to a lake. Its startling, cobalt-blue water put the sky to shame, even by lantern light. We waded in barefoot with clothes hiked up, but George and I became drenched anyway. It was fun but freezing.

When the lantern oil waned, we reluctantly backtracked to the cave’s entrance, with George as guide. I was grateful for his knowledge of the cave because I would have been completely lost in the maze of passages.

Once out of the cave, George and I relaxed for a time in the sun while he whittled a small block of wood he carried in his pocket. On our way back down the hill, I pointed out edibles such as bilberries, meadow salsify, and lawyer’s wig mushrooms. George and I hungrily ate some, and then gathered all we could carry to George’s mother for supper.

Mrs. Johnson was free with her smiles, hugs, and delicious meals. She invited me to spend Sundays after church with George and the rest of the family while the reverend made Sunday visits to his congregation.

Miss Sinclair agreed because Mrs. Johnson was an acquaintance, so she knew the family was a wholesome and pious one. Nonetheless, she lambasted me regularly about proper behavior with George and his family. Her admonitions did not matter to me, because George was a comfort in my otherwise solitary life.

Over the next few years, while war raged between America’s Northern and Southern states, I excelled academically. Toiling on schoolwork kept emptiness from the loss of my family at bay. Interested in foreign languages, I took all those available, even though just two were required: Latin, Greek, French, and German.

I was intrigued by unlocking secrets hidden within books written in diverse languages, and the way words in other tongues corresponded to English. Most of my other classes were trivial “gentlewomanly” pursuits, such as needlework, deportment, and elocution.

I enjoyed drawing class but was miserable at it. My father’s words, however, kept encouraging me: “Nothing worthwhile is gained without hard work.” Needing more instruction than was offered by the school’s curriculum, I successfully petitioned Uncle James for private drawing lessons with

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a local artist. At times, I nearly gave up because my progress was so slow, but I didn’t want to let Father down.

George and I spent many Sunday afternoons on hikes together. The two of us combed every nook and cranny within a six-mile radius of the school during our Sunday roaming. Curious about what could be seen, we climbed the tallest trees upon the highest hills.

We walked through shallow streams to find out where they led and used some medieval ruins we found as the background for impromptu melodramas. George and I observed the ways of the animals, and after a time recognized and named individuals.

In the beginning, George was a playmate and protector. As the years progressed, our relationship matured.

One autumn day in my third year, George and I sat next to each other in a copse of birch trees overlooking the valley. The gray of the sky matched my melancholy, for I was reminded of autumn in Paris. Sensing my gloom, George reached over and put his arm around me.

I froze. Then I relaxed into the warmth of him. I leaned my head against his shoulder, and we sat like that for a long while. George leaned down, and I felt a soft kiss atop my head. My heart was soothed, as if kindness flowed from his lips to my very core.

After that, we would lie under the shelter of trees, holding each other and talking while sunlight sparkled through the leaves and danced over us with tremulous, golden fingers. Occasionally, we shared a brief kiss. The warm softness of his lips on mine became the best moments of my days.

Throughout my time at school, anguish from the loss of my family lingered. I often anticipated a glimpse of someone, a shadow, a motion at the door— something of my family filling the void. This expectation of their presence caused me to take second looks when shadows teased the periphery of my vision.

One March afternoon warmer and more humid than it should have been, George and I took a walk in the woods before returning to loll behind the stables under the firs. George stirred a small pile of fallen needles into patterns with his fingers, while I braided a chain of buttercups collected on our walk. In that moment with George, I felt sufficiently at ease to confide my struggle with grief.

“Do you think the loss of loved ones triggers the loss of oneself?” I asked.

George’s gray eyes darted to mine before he looked back at the pile of dry needles, which he studied for a bit. Then he replied, “I think it is clear the people we love each occupy a part of our heart, and when they die, that part in us might be lost, too, no? I think also, perhaps we fill the holes a little bit with memories of them.”

I considered George’s answer. “But what if the memories fade and disappear? Then a person would be left with nothing but the holes.”

“It seems to me,” he said, “in such a situation it would be important to preserve the memories as best we can, while we still have them. Perhaps that could be done by transcribing the memories or finding or making other mementos.”

“Is that what you would do?”

My friend gazed out over the mountains. After a moment, he nodded. “I have my carving.”

He always carried a small piece of wood in his pocket for whittling. Sometimes he showed me the finished products: animals and figurines of happy families at play.

I pondered how I might best preserve memories of my family, which grew fainter every day. Trudy’s locket with its pictures was a piece of them I could always hold on to. I had a few more photographs of Trudy, Mother and Father, and one of Grandfather with his beehives. But these were paltry means to fill my emptiness.

During my drawing lesson the following week, I suddenly thought of a way to keep memories of my family from fading. The grave in Paris where

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they lay was unadorned, with only the words Famille de Nolan carved upon its granite cover.

What if there were an ornamented monument honoring my family at Père Lachaise necropolis? Memories of them would become ageless in marble, gracing the world with beauty for eons to come.

I had neglected my drawing lessons for a few weeks, but began again, redoubling my efforts with the goal of sketching the monument design forming in my mind. Whenever I thought to give up—which happened many times—the memory of my father, his skill, and his words pushed me to keep trying.

Late April of 1865 held a shocking week of tidings from America. Its zenith: the South had surrendered; the war was over. The nadir: our president, Abraham Lincoln, was assassinated just days afterward. I wondered about the America I would return to the following year. Would the peace hold? What would be the situation of the former slaves? I wished I could have discussed these questions with my parents.

I was still puzzling such questions a few days later when I was invited to Sunday dinner with the Johnsons. My fifteenth birthday had been the day before, and Mrs. Johnson prepared a celebratory meal crowned with my favorite dessert, her apfelstrudel.

Mrs. Johnson gave me a delicate lace collar she had tatted, which I treasured and wore often. My gift from George was a tiny, kicking Lipizzaner horse he had carved from a piece of ash and polished until it shone like one of the stallions themselves.

Later that evening in the woods, with the sky still light and crickets chirping in a chaotic symphony, George and I fell asleep in a hemlock grove. We did not awaken until dawn.

Miss Sinclair was by nature an angry woman, but that morning she was angrier than I had ever seen her. It was clear from her flushed countenance that she was steaming in her dark silks. She paced back and forth in front of the leaded windows of her office, a silhouette of iron intensity in the morning light, her heels a staccato on the mosaic tile floor.

Every now and then, a muffled crack or shout came through the windows from the gymnastics class, where a game of ground billiards waged on the front lawn.

Once she began, Miss Sinclair spat words at me, her voice an octave higher than usual.

“Miss Nolan, I should not have allowed you to spend Sundays with that . . . that . . . boy. I consider your behavior last evening to be a failure of the utmost severity. You have shamed me, our school, your schoolmates, and your esteemed family.”

What family?

“Have you not learned a single lesson in deportment since you have been with us? Where is your propriety? This is utterly shameful. What you and that boy have done is an abomination. An abomination.”

Perhaps she has been rehearsing this speech for decades. I am so fortunate to be its witness. Joy unbounded.

“You have dragged the reputation of this fine school into the ditches. For all we know . . . How many times have you lain with that boy? What have you to say for yourself?”

Her fury of words and striding came to a sudden halt as she turned to fix me with raging eyes. Girls’ laughter drifted into the room from the game outside. A woodlark in the rhododendron below the window sang its cheery toolooeat, toolooeat, toolooeat.

Instinctively, I reached for Trudy’s locket, rubbing its golden warmth into my fingers. I knew humble pie would be the best offering, but one must defend oneself when no one else would. “Miss Sinclair, I adamantly disagree, as your conclusion is false. I did not surrender my virtue, not once. I have always done as you asked and been a model student. Your lessons have not gone unheeded.”

The headmistress’s ears flamed red, her rage rising even further. “We shall see, we shall see, Miss Nolan. You shall submit to an examination by our physician and the truth of the matter shall be exposed. You may go.” She turned her back to stare stonily out the window at the girls and their game.

I suffered through a humiliating examination by Herr von Graben, the school physician, who pronounced me still intact. Nevertheless, a cloud of hissing whispers followed me, and Claudia, instead of ignoring me as was customary, glared. Miss Sinclair never apologized for her false accusations or even mentioned the doctor’s findings. Far worse, one of George’s sisters told me their father had beaten him severely, and we were to be kept apart permanently.

I considered defying the injunction, but truth be told, I was afraid of Reverend Johnson. More than once, I had seen his eyes spark with anger and his children flinch.

Without George in my life, I was broken. Nevertheless, I determined to take George’s advice about keeping the memory of my family alive, and wrote to Uncle William, asking him to persuade Uncle James to allow construction of a monument at the Paris gravesite.

After Uncle James agreed to the monument, my drawing tutor gave me the names of two Parisian sculptors who could be hired to do quality work. To meet the sculptors and commission one of them to create the monument, I obtained Miss Sinclair’s permission to travel to Paris that summer with Frau Klein.

I speculated that Miss Sinclair’s approval, given with dramatized reluctance, was to keep me from complaining to my aunt and uncle about her treatment of me.

The day of our departure for Paris dawned warm and humid, thus I was glad to be wearing my cage crinoline, which allowed me to forego layers of heavy petticoats. Frau Klein and I rode the Kaiserin Elisabeth-Bahn to Salzburg, where we overnighted at a small inn near the station. The next morning, we headed for Stuttgart and the Rhône valley.

During our journey west, Frau Klein was often engrossed in reading her book. She had tried to keep the title covered, but I knew it to be Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself. I had heard of this book, which was said to be a description of the horrors of slavery but was rather scandalous owing to some indelicate content.

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I wanted to understand Frau Klein’s interest. “Frau Klein, please forgive me for interrupting your reading. I should like to ask your thoughts on a topic related to the book you are reading.”

Frau Klein closed her book, removed her spectacles, and mopped her brow. She looked at me expectantly.

“Frau Klein, what do you think shall happen to the former slaves in America, now that the war is over?”

“That is a good question. It may be some years before all Americans accept the end of slavery, and so the dangers to the former slaves may not be insignificant.”

“I hope not. It couldn’t be worse than slavery was. My parents used to attend antislavery meetings, and they made sure my sister and I treated all with respect. Perhaps they were more involved, I will never know. Once, I overheard a family friend tell Father about his visit to a Louisiana plantation. The plantation owner tried to have, um, relations with a nine-year-old slave girl. When her mother begged and tried to save her girl, both mother and daughter were tied up and their backs whipped until the skin shredded. Father was furious to hear of such a thing.”

“How horrible, Naissa. Thank goodness slavery is at an end. I pray when you return to America, you will find your country’s people coming back together.” We talked more about current events before the conversation moved to what I would do upon returning to my guardians that summer.

“Frau Klein, living in my aunt and uncle’s house is difficult for me, thus I hope to find a position that allows me to live on my own, or with another family.”

“I do not wish to pry, but what is the nature of this difficulty?”

I was unsure how much to say but felt comfortable with Frau Klein. “To be honest, the Leightons and Nolans have never been close. I suppose Aunt Josephine disliked my beautiful, outgoing mother. My Uncle James is of dour disposition and barely acknowledges me, and Claudia resents my presence.”

Frau Klein’s eyes glistened as she took my hands in hers.

“You deserve a loving homelife, my child. Every child should have unconditional love. I am sorry.”

I was warmed by my teacher’s empathy and concern. “Thank you, Frau Klein.”

“Naissa, dear, please call me Marta.” She paused and gave me a slight smile. “When we are not at school, of course.”

It was the first time since my parents had died that I conversed openly with an adult. As we talked, Marta confided that she had once been married and there was to have been a baby, but none of it had worked out. Marta told me the rest of her story, and I told her mine. Time passed quickly.

It was bittersweet to be back in Paris and see some of the places I had enjoyed with my family. When I asked our hotel’s concierge about the restaurant where my family shared our last meal together, he said it was shut down five years before because a number of diners had consumed tainted seafood, which had proved fatal.

The first sculptor Marta and I visited, Monsieur Auguste Clésinger, had been described by my drawing tutor as a sculptor of somewhat scandalous reputation but breathtaking skill. He had created the acclaimed tomb of Frédéric Chopin, in which the muse Euterpe wept over a broken lyre. When we met Clésinger in his studio, he was polite and, although his eyebrows quirked at my design sketch for the monument, he seemed pleased with my ideas. Clésinger, full-bearded and rather unkempt in a baggy suit grayed with stone dust, had the strong, aquiline nose common to many of the French. Wisps of white in his dark beard and hair softened his angles, but his eyes were so black and sharp, I would not have been surprised if he used their gaze to bore straight through marble.

As we discussed his fee, my attention was caught by a low figure in the corner of the studio. I excused myself and approached it. My limbs suddenly froze and I gasped at the sight of a nude, reclining woman of white

marble. Her nakedness was carved in such exquisite detail, my cheeks burned. She had the generous curves of a real woman, the stunning result of intricate chisel work. I could almost smell the morning glories, roses, and lilies upon which she lay, their rendering was so lifelike. Most striking, even beyond the exquisiteness of the work, was her pose. The woman’s head arched back at an extreme angle, while her spine twisted and was locked in an eternal convulsion. Her torso was in the throes of death. She reminded me of my mother in her last, agonizing moments.

And yet, this woman held peace in her countenance. Her feet and hands were in languorous repose, as if the final relaxation was having its way with her. The dichotomy was unsettling and intriguing.

“Elle est Femme Piquée par un Serpent Woman Bitten by a Serpent,” said Monsieur Clésinger at the very moment I spied the tiny snake curled around her wrist like a bracelet. One could easily forget this was a piece of marble. I turned away from her and walked toward him.

“When would you start on the monument? And how long might it take?” I offered silent thanks to Mother, Father, and Grandfather for the funds with which I was able to pay Monsieur Clésinger’s exorbitant commission. I told Frau Klein there was no need to visit the other sculptor.

After returning to Vienna, I suffered through my remaining months at school without George. My only consolation was a second trip to Paris with Frau Klein, this one at the close of my final exams, to oversee installation of my family’s monument. Frau Klein and I found lodging on Rue de la Roquette, near the Père Lachaise main entrance, and took pleasure in daily jaunts to the necropolis.

The walk up to Section Ten where my family was interred was not long, yet it was a journey to a universe separate from the living chaos just outside the gates. As we strolled deeper into the stone garden, up its narrow cobblestone and flagstone alleys, the voices of wrens and nuthatches gradually

overtook the din of the city. The many residents of the narrow and ornate stone houses packed among spreading maples and chestnuts infused us with their quiet repose, coaxing worries to fall away.

Monsieur Clésinger and his apprentices had worked exclusively on my commission over the past year. The final installation took several weeks’ effort, with Clésinger, his two apprentices, and a number of laborers working dawn to dusk.

I enjoyed the worksite with its marble dust, clanging and banging, and laborers stripped to their trousers, their iron muscles glistening as they wielded hammers and hefted hunks of marble. Clésinger, barking orders and working with singular focus, somehow never failed to pause and provide a colorful update on the progress, pointing out what was newly accomplished, what was yet to be done, and the infuriating details, which, if not rectified, would mar his artistic excellence.

One morning, Clésinger called on Frau Klein and me at the inn. As we sat in the parlor, he beamed.

“Madame et mademoiselle, I have excellent news for you this morning. The work is accomplished. C’est fini.”

Frau Klein and I both exclaimed in excitement.

“How wonderful!” Frau Klein said, “When may we see it?”

Clésinger turned his beret in his hands. “I would be honored if you would accompany me at present, maintenant.”

I hesitated. “Thank you, monsieur, I am happy to hear your news. Please excuse me a moment, and I will get the balance of your fee.”

I needed a minute to think. Going to my room, I retrieved the note I’d previously written with the balance of the agreed-upon price. While I was anxious to see the finished monument, I wanted to be alone for my first viewing of my family’s tribute.

Back in the parlor, Clésinger accepted the note with thanks.

“Monsieur, in order to fully appreciate your work, I would like to view it in private, if you do not mind. I will go to the cemetery later in the day, by myself. Would that be acceptable to you?”

Clésinger seemed to deflate. “Mais oui, of course, mademoiselle. As you wish.”

“Perhaps Frau Klein would like to view the monument with you now? She is anxious to see it.”

After they left, I went to a nearby café and had a small dinner while watching colorful Paris flow by on the busy street. Afterward, I walked to the library to return a book I had borrowed earlier in our stay and then browsed a few of the shops. Finally, as the sun began slanting and shadows grew longer, I turned toward the necropolis.

The monument was exquisitely beautiful in the late afternoon light, its sparkling, colorful marble mimicking nature with perfect pitch. It was exactly what I had envisioned. Clésinger had brilliantly executed the ornamented, eight-foot-tall arch over the sepulcher, and a marble bench where one could sit and look upon, and through, the archway. Everything was hewn not from the austere marbles of muted white and gray so common in the necropolis, but from a rainbow of richly hued marbles: crimson Griotte from France, the palest pink Rosetta Vene from Egypt, yellow and orange Numidian from Tunisia, green Cipollino Versilia from Italy, Blue Sky from Brazil, purple-veined Pavonazzo from Italy, ebony Noir Belge from Belgium, ivory Proconnesian from Turkey, and Artesian White from Greece.

Carved in high relief on the arch were two smiling goddesses whose benevolent gaze, I was sure, comforted the spirits of my family as they passed through the archway. Gaea, Mother Earth, was on the left column of the arch and honored Mother and Father’s love and respect for the natural world. The shaft of the tall spear Gaea held was encircled with tea roses and represented Trudy, whose name meant spear. Rays hewn from Numidian marble radiated from the spear’s tip, up and across the span of the arch, where they met and intermingled with vines of ivy. The ivy grew from Physis, the goddess of nature, who was on the right-hand column. She honored my parents’ study of the world around them. The scales she carried represented Grandfather’s profession as a barrister. His beehives and honey, grapes and wine balanced the scales. The goddesses were adorned

Renée Schaeffer

with brightly colored tiaras, necklaces, bracelets, and rings, representing the Nolan jewelry business. Masses of carved dahlia and lilac, Mother’s favorite, grew from the base of the arch, and flowers of all sorts rose up and around the arch in bas-relief, all reaching out toward the apex, the sun.

Too many of the figures in the cemetery were sorrowful. I wanted my family to instead spend their eternity in beauty. Each stroke of Clésinger’s chisel sang of Mother, Father, Trudy, and Grandfather—forever beautiful, forever joyful.

I sat upon the marble bench in front of the archway and allowed the world to settle around me. The scent of freshly turned earth drifted by on puffs of air while wrens’ clear voices warbled. A pair of lovers whispered and laughed softly as they ambled past with arms interlocked. I stayed until the light started to dim and the marbles burned with the lowering sun’s fiery reds and golds. The lovely surroundings and the splendor of the monument brought memories of my family into sharper focus. As the songbirds quieted and the nighthawks began their raspy calls, I had the satisfaction of knowing I had honored my family in a manner they would have been proud of.

On the way down to the exit from Père Lachaise, I paused at the grieving woman sitting upon her pedestal, whom I now knew was La Douleur, or Grief, sculpted by François Dominique Milhomme in 1815. She was more beautiful than I remembered, more human. I empathized with her.

Before returning to Philadelphia, I sent Monsieur Clésinger a letter apologizing for excluding him from my first viewing of the completed monument, describing what it was like for me to experience the monument, and how perfectly he had carried out my intention. My thanks for bringing my family closer to my heart, exactly as I had wished, were sincere.

Because my sketch had accurately communicated my wishes for the monument to Clésinger, I was encouraged to keep drawing. I carried a small sketchbook with me and developed the habit of drawing whenever I could.

Regarding Frau Klein, I corresponded with her until her death over thirty years later. She became my Aunt Marta for whom I cared deeply, and who genuinely cared about me and my success. When I received a letter from Aunt Marta’s sister informing me of her death, I felt the last remnant of family ripped from my grasp.

All I ever learned of George was that he left home a few months after my departure and joined the clergy. I hoped he found happiness—as I did upon my return to Philadelphia.

Available now, wherever books are sold.

Is eternal youth a blessing or a curse?

Naissa Nolan is a happy child in 1850s Philadelphia—until tragedy strikes while she and her family are on holiday. Alone and heartbroken, she is thrust into an immortal life she never bargained for or imagined. Naissa spends the next few centuries on Earth—and beyond—desperate to learn more about her condition. While working with the esteemed Oberlin Institute in Vienna, she makes an important discovery that could change everything.

But trusting the wrong people is a mistake, and Naissa’s immortal life enters a new chapter she never anticipated.

Cover Design: Maryann Appel

Cover Artwork: BestDesign, ETC Craft, Yuri Arcurs