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Excerpt from When We Were Birds: A Novel © 2022 by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo Excerpt from Into the Mist: A Novel © 2022 by P. C. Cast Excerpt from The Violence: A Novel © 2022 by Delilah S. Dawson Excerpt from The Paradox Hotel © 2022 by Rob Hart Excerpt from Sea of Tranquility: A Novel © 2022 Emily St. John Mandel Excerpt from Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan © 2022 by Elizabeth Anne Michalski All rights reserved.

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FA N D O M EXCERPT SAMPLER | VOL. 5

When We Were Birds: A Novel

by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo........................................................................................... 3

Into the Mist: A Novel

by P. C. Cast.................................................................................................................. 17

The Violence: A Novel

by Delilah S. Dawson............................................................................................... 35

The Paradox Hotel: A Novel

by Rob Hart...................................................................................................................55

Sea of Tranquility: A Novel

by Emily St. John Mandel..................................................................................... 67

Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan

by Liz Michalski.......................................................................................................... 75

E n t e r t h e Fa n d o m !

Be sure to check out these upcoming Sci-Fi, and Fantasy titles, coming soon to your local library.

@PRHLibrary

@PRHGetsGraphic

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in Great Britain as When We Were Birds by Hamish Hamilton, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd., a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., London, in 2022. www.doubleday.com doubleday and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Book design by Maria Carella Jacket photograph by TK Jacket design by John Fontana Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Banwo, Ayanna Lloyd, author.

Title: When we were birds : a novel / Ayanna Lloyd Banwo.

Description: First edition. | New York : Doubleday, 2022.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021005691 (print) | LCCN 2021005692 (ebook) | ISBN 9780385547260 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593313619 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780385547277 (ebook) Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PR9272.9.L56 G38 2022 (print) | LCC PR9272.9.L56 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005691 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005692 manufactured in the united states of america

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 First United States Edition

Banw_9780385547260_all_3p_r1.indd 4

9/21/21 9:34 AM

1 Yejide

“First thing you have to remember,” Granny Catherine hold her granddaughter, Yejide, close on her lap, “is that there was a time before time.” She press the first layer of tobacco down into the ebony pipe. The flame from her silver lighter make a small blaze in the cavern of the bowl and the pipe settle between her lips. “Before we come to live in this house, before the settlement in the valley, before the quarries, when the forest was so thick that no man could cross it, Morne Marie was the home only of animals. But not like animals we see now, oh no!” Catherine open her eyes wide and the blue smoke curl out of her nostrils. “The ocelots was big like tigers, the deer run so fast that no man could catch them even if he dare enter the forest to hunt them, and the little green parrots that sing at dusk was as big as the blood-red ibis that live in the swamplands. The animals could talk to each other, just like I talking now, and they build a mighty city in the forest. But this city was nothing like Port Angeles. It had no buildings, no boundaries, no gates, and the animals live together without territory to guard and borders to mind.

“But one day a warrior wander into the forest. He see that it full of animals to hunt and fruit to eat. When he look at the trees he only see the houses he could build, and

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when he look at the land he only see what he could take.

The animals try to talk to him and tell him that there was so much more there than what he could see, but he did not know their language and so could not understand them.

“That warrior bring more warriors and with the warriors come builders and with the builders come farmers and with the farmers come priests. With the priests come governors and with the governors come death.”

“But the animals fight them, right?” Yejide squirm on her granny lap. Nothing she love more than this fullcupboard feeling: the sweet smell of tobacco, the even rhythm of the rocking chair, the green hills and her granny face brimming with story. She think of the sharp teeth of the ocelots and the tight grip of the macajuel that could suffocate a man in its coils; no way any human with just two legs, very small teeth and no poison at all could ever defeat the wild animals of the forest.

Catherine look at her and puff on her pipe. “Who telling the story, you or me?”

Yejide grin and quiet down again.

“The animals had always live in peace, but they know then that it was time for war. The battle rage bloody and terrible. The quarry you see there”— Catherine point out the window to the deep brown crater on the hillside—“was where the animals make a stand in a battle so fierce that it leave scars on the mountain.

“All that killing cut the forest deep. Wounded, it went into mourning and that bring the longest dry season ever on Morne Marie. The rivers hide in the earth and the trees wilt and die away. The ocelots shrink small like house cats, the howler monkeys get timid, and the deer and manicou and lappe, who had live in peace before, start to look at each other and see food. The warriors suffer too, for no one, man

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nor animal, could survive when nature decide to withhold its bounty.

“Then one day when all were weary, and it look like the war would claim not only the fighters but the whole forest, a great storm set up in the hills. Fat, grey clouds empty out into the green and the men and animals rejoice to see the rivers rise again, and the forest drink deep of the rain. Thunder and lightning pelt down for three days and three nights.

But remember I tell you, this was a time before time, when a tree could reach full-grown in a day and a boy could reach manhood in a night, so this storm was longer and fiercer than any of the animals had ever see before. The earth slide down the hillsides and crash into the valley below. Trees older than any animal could remember lose their hold on the earth and topple over. The rivers burst their banks and rush over the land. Rejoicing turn again to sorrow. It come like the whole forest turn on them and demand its share of the lives who defile its sacred places with war.

“Now, the green parrots, the ones who cackle and sing and chatter, just like you”— Catherine pinch Yejide’s lips together to stop her from giggling—“well, they were wiser than any of the animals give them credit for. The parrots watch the rain and watch the hills and watch the rivers and watch the dead pile high. They gather together in the branches of the last sacred silk cotton tree and hold a council. At the council’s end, the parrot battalion split and divide in two. One half fly to the east and the other half fly to the west.

“The parrots that went west get small and become the little green birds we see today, those that sing and fly toward the setting of the sun. But those that went east toward the sunrise mute their green feathers to black and curve their beaks into sharp hooks. Their bodies get fat and their wing-

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span stretch so wide they darken the land below them as they fly. They release one last great song that make all the animals and men tremble, then grow grey hoods around their heads and necks that silence their throats forever.

“You know what they turn into, Yejide?” Catherine stare out the window, smile and puff on her pipe.

“Corbeaux!” Yejide cry out. She love getting the right answer. No matter how many times she hear the story, knowing the answer always make her feel grown up and very important.

Catherine nod and pull deep from the pipe. “When the change was complete, they feel their bellies get hungry for flesh. They spread their wings wide and circle the land slow, searching out the dead. And with their new long, curved beaks and talons sharp like caiman teeth, they tear into the flesh of the animals who was once their friends and the men who was once their enemies. When they done, they take to the silk cotton tree again, leaving nothing but bone.

“The living look on in horror to see the devouring of the dead. They don’t understand how the birds they once knew could do something so terrible. But the chattering parrots they knew were gone. They turn into something else entirely now. When they shed their green and change their form, they take on a sacred duty—to stand at the border between the living and the dead. So they wait for the dying and watch over the carcasses and consume the flesh.

And no one but the corbeaux know that inside their bodies the souls of the dead transform and release.”

Catherine lift Yejide off her lap and put her to stand on the wooden floor in her white patent-leather church shoes.

“Right. Story done. Now make sure and put those shoes away. And your nice dress. Hang it on the back of the chair

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in my room. Don’t let me come and find that you just leave it anyhow.”

But Yejide know the ritual well. “Story not done, Granny. What happen next?”

Catherine look down at her granddaughter. Just now she would be too tall for little-girl dresses, too grown to sit on her lap. But not yet— she reach her hand out and Yejide run back into her arms. Not yet.

“Well, when the sun rise on the fourth morning of the great storm, when all the corbeaux stomach full and everyone weary with pain and grief, the rain stop. No more flood. Balance come back to the forest. But after they get saved, nobody like to think of who rescue them. In this way people and animals are the same. Everyone begin to fear the corbeaux. So, they fly away to live at the edges of the forest of Morne Marie. They alone know the world changing and it would have work for them in the cities of men to come. And so, like in all the stories that change the world, over time everyone forget that the ending of the storm happen at the same time the corbeaux born. Everyone, of course, except the corbeaux—” She bend close to whisper in Yejide’s ear. “We remember.”

– When We Were Birds: A Novel by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo –

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2 Dar win

The beat-up white Bedford slow down and pull off the road, orange indicator flashing. Darwin nod at the driver, an old man with a newsboy cap low on his forehead. The girl in the passenger seat don’t even look up, her eyes down in her cell phone.

“Port Angeles?”

The old man nod to the cargo tray in the back. Darwin scramble up before the man change his mind and tap the metal panel to let him know that he inside. They head down the highway, the fields brown from the dry spell and bush fires passing in a blur.

He push a big crocus bag full of what feel like potato or dasheen or some kinda provision to one side, a heavy curl-up rope to the other, and settle himself in between two ridges on the floor of the cargo tray so he don’t tip over when the truck hit a pothole. Then he lean back on the tailgate and look up at the sky. That hour the day was usually still clean and pink, but Sahara dust was bad this rounds.

Make the pink hazy and the clouds look like bundle-up dirty clothes.

Sky like this make him feel a way. Easy to feel hopeful when the sky clear, the air have some leftover rain in it and the hills green and lush. Make a man feel like he know

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where he going, and what he about. Like things would work out even if he not sure what coming next. But this kinda dirty- clothes sky make him feel like the place could blow up any minute. Breathing in dust and ash and smoke like is a war zone you living in.

But even in a dusty time, sometimes a man does catch some luck. Like a drop into town from an old man in a pickup. People don’t stop for nobody at this hour just so, sun not up good yet. When he was young, was easy to hitch a ride anywhere. Always somebody heading down to the coast or into the city. Easy to join a group of boys from up Dalia Street going anywhere, no shoes, no shirt, laughing.

Don’t even have to be friends. But these days different. And he is not no little boy again.

He shift so his back rest in the middle of the tailgate and the old man could see him clear in the rear-view mirror. He can’t blame him, the way things going these days, but when he feel the driver eyes on him he stare right back, hard. It feel good when the man look away first. What he think Darwin going to do? Jump out, hang on to the moving truck, scramble through the window and cut his throat?

He might be plenty things, but he eh no bandit and he eh no killer.

Smoke rise from the brown fields in the distance.

He try to remember when last it rain. The hot-sun pause in the rainy season usually welcome, give the earth a chance to dry out little bit, but Petit Carême come early this year and that, plus the bush fires, turn the heat up like a furnace. He study the provision in the crocus bag, and wonder if the old man is a farmer, carrying produce to the market. Must be have it extra hard this year. He would have like to ask him, maybe chat on the way, talk about the city that he going for the first time. Up ahead abandoned

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cranes come up from the land like fingers, and an overpass stop in mid-air like a road to nowhere in the sky. Since the big construction companies close up shop and the government stop work on the highway project halfway between Mount Perish and the lowlands to the south, wasn’t much work anywhere anymore except the city.

Last week, when he reach the front of the line in the government employment office in Wharton, he couldn’t believe his good fortune. He know bout men who wait for hours and before the line move even halfway the boss lady inside say everything they have for the day done give out, come back tomorrow. So, when the clerk hand him a form from the pile on her desk for him to sign his name, he say a prayer of thanks because Jah know. mrs . jameson — senior clerk . She had make her own cardboard name card for her desk. She was the only one really working too. Some other men was in a corner, dress shirtsleeves roll up, knocking a game of All Fours on two desks push together. One of the men was shuffling the cards like an expert, a wicked grin on his face like he just know he going to win everybody money. A lady next to them was arguing with somebody on her cell phone.

“What kinda work it is, Mrs. Jameson?” Darwin look at the form she hand him.

“When you hungry and somebody give you food, you does ask what kind?” She push her glasses up on her face and keep sorting her files.

“I mean, what Fidelis is, exactly?”

“You don’t know Fidelis? Is the big cemetery in Port Angeles. On St. Brigitte Avenue.”

“A cemetery? With dead people?”

“You know another kinda cemetery?”

“What kinda work it have to do in a cemetery?”

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“They need another gravedigger.”

Darwin swear every hair on his body had raise up same time. “You don’t have anything else?”

“Look, give me back my paper and go.” She reach out her hand for the form. “When you desperate enough you go find yourself here again.”

Like if it had anywhere else to go. By the time people reach that office looking for work, any work, it mean they done stand up in every other line, sign every other list, and this was the last stop. The second he leave, there would be somebody else just like him, or a woman with a baby, a lady with handbag that had see better days, a man with good shoes who only just fall on hard times, out there in the hot sun to take his place. The line was already long all the way down the street and around the corner.

“Emmanuel Darwin?” She read out his name.

“Yes. But just Darwin, ma’am.”

She push her glasses up again and look at him properly for the first time—his full beard, the tam covering his locks, down to his battered boots. Her eyes soften a bit.

“Listen, Darwin, if it had something else I would give you, but this is what I have right now. You could come back but . . .” She look behind him at the line.

So, he sign the form. Six weeks’ work to start, and if he get on okay, they might keep him. Feel like signing his life away. But this world had a way of doing you things like that.

And maybe this is what it mean to be a man. Doing the things you never think you would have to do, making a hard choice when the only thing in front you is hard choices.

He feel eyes on him in the rear-view mirror again. But this time it was the girl. He didn’t get to look at her good when he get in the truck but in the better light he could see she wasn’t no girl at all; maybe his age or a year or two

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younger. She keep looking from her phone to the old man and then to Darwin in the mirror, half-smiling at him with her eyes like she don’t want the old man to see.

He wonder if, like him, she was just getting a ride into the city. Maybe the old man was her father, her uncle. Look too old to be her man but you never really know with how the times was hard. Maybe if they get off the same time he could talk to her. He try to see whether she was in office clothes, just something to gauge what kinda girl she was.

Then he think about Marcia and the last time he see her, the whole new life she must be have now. He watch the lipstick on the girl mouth, the long hair that look expensive, and then he think about the next to nothing he have in his pockets. He look away. Too much trouble. Probably just like the idea of dealing with a Rastaman to piss off Daddy.

It hit him like a cuff all over again that the man Mrs. Jameson see a few days ago and the man the girl see in the rear-view mirror today wasn’t the same. He not sure what anybody see when they look at him now. What a way life could change in a week. Like bush fire.

He run his hands over his shorn hair, his head feeling like it belong to somebody else. Six in the morning was still six in the morning even in dry season; he not used to the cool air on his almost bare head, the back of his neck, his ears. At least his mother had make sure he leave her house with a whole coconut bake, still warm and smelling of her hands. She didn’t wake up to watch him go, but she leave the bake on the counter for him where he could see it. That had to mean something, that she make breakfast for him, even if her face say he wasn’t her son no more. He feel the weight of it in his rucksack and hope that, no matter where he end up, when his mother say her prayers his name was still in her mouth.

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They switch lanes on the overpass and join the bulk of the traffic heading toward the city. He look up at the sky, lighter now that the sun was higher, but still kinda cloudy, hazy, and he see black specks circling. Corbeaux. Better than any signpost.

He watch the birds circling slow. His mother, Janaya, used to say that once you see so much corbeaux, you know you nearly reach Port Angeles. Is not like they ever do anybody anything but is something about the silent way they does circle, and how sometimes you could see a whole set of them just sitting in a line on a telephone wire, watching.

Once you see corbeaux you know is dead they there for.

And in the city, dead don’t bound to be a stray dog or a manicou or old meat that restaurant throw out in the drain.

Could be a woman head that the police never find even after they find the rest of her body; could be a man floating, fat and swell up with water in the harbour; could be a child in a crocus bag that nobody know there till they see the corbeaux flying.

When he was small he used to ask Janaya how come they never went in town to go cinema or concert like everybody else. She give the same answer that she give when he ask about his father, if he was still in Port Angeles: “Is only dead in the city, Emmanuel. Rasta don’t deal with the dead.”

Traffic slow to a stop as they reach the main intersection and Darwin could see the big concrete arches of the Port Angeles transit station. The driver pull up at the traffic light and before babylon could come out from nowhere, blue lights flickering, to give the old man a ticket for carrying him in the tray, Darwin bang the side again, “I go take it here, uncle!” and jump out.

He cross the road to where a long line of people was

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hustling into the station, everybody face set up, walking fast-fast like fire ants. Some heading up long stairways, others down corridors and the rest pouring through the gates into the city centre. He turn back for a second to look for the truck and the girl inside it, but the traffic light had done change and she gone.

He feel his foot brush something on the ground. Look down and see it was a man asleep on fold-out cardboard boxes, the crowds walking around him. He hitch his backpack up on his shoulder. Probably better that he didn’t try anything with the girl. Better so. He walk through the tall concrete arches and melt into the city.

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– When We Were Birds: A Novel by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo –

This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by P. C. Cast All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC. Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC. Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-918-7 ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-919-4 Cover design by Peter Strain Printed in the United States. www.crookedlanebooks.com Crooked Lane Books 34 West 27th St., 10th Floor New York, NY 10001 First Edition: July 2022 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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1 “H

oly shit! Bright and cold is so confusing.” Mercury Rhodes dug in her purse for her sunglasses, which she found—predictably—at the very bottom of the bag. She fished them out, frowning at the lint from balled-up, unused tissues that always lurked in her purse, and blew across the lenses before she shoved them on her face.

She was joined by her best friend, Stella Carver, who—also predictably—had her shades perched perfectly on her nose. Stella pulled up the faux fur collar on her 1920s flapper-style car coat and took a sip of her mimosa. “Oh please, Acorn. We’ve been at Timberline for five days, and this is what—your third conference here?”

Mercury raised a brow. “Fourth. And don’t call me Acorn.”

“Fourth. Whatever. You’re not used to the bright mixed with cold yet? And by the by, I like your dad’s nickname for you, and ten plus years of best friendship allows me Acorn privileges.”

“Fine. Call me Acorn. And, no, I think it’ll always be weird to me that I can get a sunburn and frostbite at the same time. More importantly, where’d you get the mimosa?”

“Ram’s Head Bar made me a to-go flute. Aren’t they sweet?”

Stella tilted her mirrored sunglasses down. Her glacier-blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she batted her eyelashes in mock innocence.

Mercury snorted. “You’re an Oklahoma public schoolteacher, so I know they’re”—Mercury air-quoted the word—“not being sweet because you’re an over-tipper.”

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“You know I always tip a solid twenty percent. Bad tippers have no soul.” Stella’s full lips curled up into a cat-licking-cream grin.

“But there are more ways to show appreciation than with money.”

“So, you hooked up with that infant last night?”

Stella clutched her fake pearls. “Dusty is thirty and a half. An absolutely legal adult.”

“You’re forty-five and a half. That’s a fifteen-year difference.”

Stella shrugged. “Numbers. Mere numbers.”

Mercury rolled her hazel eyes. “Fifteen years. And please. His name couldn’t actually be Dusty Rose. With all that long hair and those tattoos, he’s textbook romance hero cliché.”

Stella tossed back her mane of blonde and silver-streaked curls.

“Oh, honey, who cares about a decade or so? Look at this fabulous ass.” She wiggled her shapely butt. “Does it say I’m too old? Not hardly. And with his skills, who the hell cares what his name is?”

“You’re not talking about his ability to mix a perfect cocktail, are you?”

“Huh? Did you say cock?”

A man rushed past them, jostling Stella’s arm so that she spilled half of her mimosa on the wide concrete stairs that stretched from the entrance of Timberline Lodge to the parking lot of the Oregon ski resort. “Come on!” he blustered. “Get that SUV pulled around so we can load the luggage! We need to get going so we’re at the Portland airport an hour and a half before flight time!”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Stella glared at the man. “Watch where you’re going, Mr. Hale!”

Richard Hale glanced over his shoulder at the two women. “Ladies, fun and games are over. The rest of the teachers are already waiting with the luggage around the side of the lodge.” He gestured dramatically at the driver of the nearby Escalade, who began to swing the vehicle past them to follow the side road that led to the bellhop station. Then Richard Hale faced the two women, his look of disapproval focused on Stella’s half-empty mimosa. “Ms. Carver, is that really necessary?”

“Yes. Completely.”

His sigh was long suffering. “Well, you’re waiting at the wrong place. No wonder Coach Davis was confused and pulled up here.” Hale paused, and when neither woman responded, he ran his hand through his short, thinning blond hair. “Well, come on. Follow me to where you’re supposed to be.” He marched down the stairs after the rental SUV. 20

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“Principals make my ass hurt,” said Mercury as she combed her fingers through her wavy hair.

Stella chugged the last of her mimosa and threw the plastic flute into a nearby waste can. “Preaching to the choir, my friend. Better follow him before he has a stroke.” She hooked her arm through Mercury’s and whispered, “And you know he has high blood pressure, soooo . . .” She let the last word linger and waggled her eyebrows.

Mercury barked a laugh. “Ha! Don’t all principals have high blood pressure?”

“Probably.” Stella shrugged. “Most of ’em can’t even handle a classroom, yet they’re promoted.” She rolled her eyes. “Mediocrity is so much easier to control than free-thinking excellence, but they put mediocrity in charge of those of us who are free-thinking and excellent—hence the high blood pressure issue.”

“Preach, sister!” Mercury lowered her voice. “Too bad his fave, Deena, doesn’t have her National Certification and wasn’t eligible to attend the spring conference. She really gets his blood pressure up.”

Stella’s laughter was full, loud, and contagious. “Hey, they’re platonic. Remember?”

“Uh, nope. But I do remember that he’s married and so is dear little Deena. I also remember seeing her leave his office last month, very disheveled. Her appliqued sweater was on inside out. And then Dicky Hale named her head of the English Department at the next faculty meeting. Coincidence? I think not.”

“I love faculty scandals,” said Stella. “Especially when the participants are too inept to even attempt a decent cover-up. I mean, Deena is the youngest, least experienced teacher in the English department. Like it’s not obvious how she got named head?”

“Right? Clearly it’s the correct job title, though.”

Giggling like girls, the friends joined the small group waiting beside the black Escalade. A young, harried bellhop nodded automatically as the principal explained to him how to load the luggage into the rear of the big SUV. Beside the SUV three women watched the luggage loading with silent semi-interest. When they saw Mercury and Stella, two of the three grinned and waved. The third pursed her lips in an expression so familiar that deep crevices framed her thin lips—pursed or not.

“There you two are!” The tall brunette, whose skinny jeans and cropped top made her look more student than teacher, lifted a

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cardboard drink carrier that had two paper cups in it. Puppy-ish, she bounced up on her toes as she offered the drinks to Mercury and Stella. “Got you guys your fave.”

“Coffee and Kahlúa?” Mercury asked as she reached for one of the cups.

“Yep. With no sugar for both of you, right?”

Mercury grinned as she took one of the cups from the cardboard holder. “Jenny, you were the best intern I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only intern you’ve ever had,” Jenny quipped.

“Well, you’re the best new nationally certified teacher I know,” said Stella before she took her own cup and sipped it with a satisfied smile.

Mercury lifted one brow. “You’ve never even watched her teach.”

Stella shrugged. “I don’t have to. She knows how we like our booze coffee. Her attention to detail is clearly excellent, which makes for good teaching.”

Mercury laughed. “Point well made, girlfriend.”

“Do you really think having your ex-intern fetch spiked coffee is the proper way to mentor her as a young teacher?”

Stella curled a lip. “Absolutely. Acorn and I live by the motto: start as you mean to finish. So take your dark, judgmental cloud elsewhere, Karen.”

Karen sniffed disapprovingly. “I don’t know why you insist on calling Ms. Rhodes by that nickname. It really isn’t professional.”

“She’s my best friend. There’s nothing professional about that, which you’d know if you had a best friend,” quipped Stella. “Plus, her dad wasn’t wrong when he nicknamed her. Her hair really is a perfect acorn shade.” Stella reached out to pat Mercury’s wavy, nut-colored hair.

Mercury sidestepped Stella’s hand and muttered, “Stop antagonizing her!” under her breath at her friend, then stifled a sigh and forced herself to smile at the pinched-face teacher. “Good morning, Mrs. Gay.” Mercury always called the history teacher by her last name. She realized it was childish, but she thought it was hilarious that someone so uptight and homophobic had that particular name.

“Did you sleep well?”

Karen Gay nodded jerkily. “Of course. Sleeplessness is a sign of a troubled conscience.”

“Or fun, Karen. You do remember fun, don’t you?” added Stella—who always called her by her first name because, as she put it, Karen is such a Karen.

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Karen’s only response was a disapproving glance as she straightened her cardigan and smoothed her strictly starched and ironed khaki slacks.

“Oh, look you guys.” Amelia Watson, the last member of their little group representing Tulsa Public Schools, called their attention to the sign “Timberline Lodge Welcomes Nationally Certified Teachers Spring Conference Members” that another bellhop was changing to “Welcome Portland Nike Executives.”

“That’s kinda sad,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Mercury said. “All of this bright cold is wearing on me. It’s pretty, but snow year-round is just not right.”

Stella shook her head. “Please don’t be such an Okie.”

“But I am an Okie!” Mercury loaded the sentence with a lazy twang that sounded like Tulsa on a hot summer day.

“Well, I think it’s nice here. I like the snow and—” Amelia paused, winced, and rubbed her protruding belly.

“You okay?” Mercury stepped closer to the pregnant teacher.

Amelia sighed and nodded as she continued to massage her middle. “I’m fine. He’s just agreeing with me by kicking my ribs.”

Stella studied her. “Are you sure you’re only seven months along?

You look big enough to pop any second.”

“Thanks.” Amelia laced her words heavily with sarcasm. “That’s exactly what every pregnant woman wants to hear.”

“Sorry!” Stella held up her hands in mock surrender. “Your pregnant dress is real pretty. I love that shade of yellow. Truce?”

Amelia laughed. “Truce. But it’s called a maternity dress. I’m the one who’s preggers—not my dress.”

Richard Hale, principal of Will Rogers High School, undertipped the bellhop and then made a shooing motion at the little group. “Let’s go! Load up.”

“I’m sitting in the back with Mercury and Stella,” said Jenny as she climbed up into the rear bench seat of the rented SUV. The principal frowned disapprovingly while the three women slid into the seat before he offered Karen Gay his hand and helped her into the center bucket seat.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Hale. I do appreciate a true gentleman,” Karen said primly.

Then the principal turned his frown on the pregnant teacher. “I suppose you still have to ride in the front seat.”

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Amelia’s cheeks went pink. “I really can’t help it. I’m always travel sick when I’m pregnant. It’s better in the front seat.”

“Amelia can sit back here with us,” Mercury called. “But she’ll probably puke.”

“We don’t mind, though,” Jenny said.

“Fuckin’ A we don’t! Come on back here with the cool kids!” added Stella.

Predictably, Stella’s language made Mr. Hale wince. “No, it’s fine. Ride up front. Coach Davis! Move back. I’m driving.”

“No problem. You’re our boss,” said the coach. He climbed from the driver’s seat to the empty bucket seat behind it and nodded politely to Karen before he winked at the women behind him.

Mercury hated that Coach Davis referred to Hale as their “boss.”

The truth was that a principal is an administrator—not an employer.

The school board actually did the hiring and firing—of principals as well as teachers—but she winked back at him and Stella blew him a kiss, which made the amiable coach grin. Then Mercury startled as someone rapped on the SUV’s window, but as soon as she focused on the person—an athletically attractive woman whose tawny beige skin radiated health and whose thick, raven curls perfectly framed her smile—she quickly lowered her window.

“Imani! I missed you at breakfast,” Mercury grinned back at her.

“And I missed you at the bar,” added Stella.

Imani’s laugh was deep and filled with joy. “Oh, honey, you know sleeping with the bartender doesn’t mean you were actually at the bar, right?”

Stella smoothed back her hair. “We stopped by the bar. Afterward. So he could make me a goodbye mimosa.”

“You’re nasty,” said Imani. “Which is why I like you.”

Mercury cleared her throat expectantly.

Imani laughed again. “You’re nasty too, even if you aren’t the cradle robber your bestie is.”

“That’s only because she’s older.” Mercury paused. “But I do aspire to be her when I grow up.”

Stella spoke around her friend. “You want to squish in here?

We’re heading to the Portland airport.”

“Nah, but thanks. I booked an afternoon flight back to San Diego so that I’d have time for a little hike before I had to leave.” She gazed up at Mount Hood, stretching white and majestic behind 24

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them. “I do love me some San Diego, but sometimes I crave snow and mountains and all this raw nature.”

Mercury shivered. “Ugh. Snow. Ugh. Nature. You can have both.

Hey, don’t forget to email me your botany lesson plan for that cool photosynthesis lab.”

“I won’t forget,” Imani said. “And you two remember you promised to take a road trip to San Diego this summer and stay with me.”

Stella flipped her hair. “Are you kidding? No way we’re forgetting. Lots of military men stationed there, and my summer mission is to find Mr. Right Now—hello!”

“We are leaving!” Mr. Hale shouted from the driver’s seat as he put the SUV in gear.

Imani jumped back as Mercury and Stella waved.

“I hate it when Dicky acts douchey in front of other teachers,” Mercury muttered to Stella, who nodded as she sipped her coffee and Kahlúa.

“Don’t worry,” Stella whispered back. “Teachers expect principal douchery.”

Jenny snorted a laugh and almost spewed coffee out her nose.

“It’s always great to see Imani, though,” said Mercury. “I’m so glad our combined love of weird science stuff brought us together.”

“Right?” Stella’s thick blonde and silver hair bounced around her face as she nodded. “I’ll never forget meeting her in that pottery and brickmaking workshop. How many years ago was it?”

“Four,” said Mercury. “Jenny, didn’t Imani also take that workshop on radio wave experiments with you this year?”

“Yep, and afterward we met y’all for margaritas at the bar.

Remember?”

“I definitely recall the margaritas,” said Stella. “And that’s the night I met Dusty.” She waggled her brows.

Richard Hale’s watery blue eyes snapped up to the rearview mirror. “You know, this conference is for academic enhancement, not partying.”

“Yeah, we know. Together, over the past four days we attended”— Mercury paused as she counted—“six workshops, five curriculum and development meetings, a massive teacher roundtable, and we also had a great time. Women are wonderful multitaskers,” said Mercury. “At least that’s what you say every semester when you want us to take on extra duties for no extra pay, remember?”

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“I definitely remember,” said Stella.

Jenny chimed in, “Me too.”

Coach Davis covered his laugh with a cough while Karen Gay pursed her lips and opened the Guideposts Magazine she always kept in her briefcase.

Hale grunted and flicked on the radio.

Stella used her coat as a pillow, propping it against Mercury’s shoulder. She drained her coffee cup, grinned sleepily at her friend, and said, “Night-night.”

“Night, nasty.” Mercury settled back with her Kindle. She scrolled through her library and tried to decide between something fae by Holly Black or something fae by Karen Marie Moening, but then ended up not reading either—the tall pines that filled the forest on both sides of Oregon’s highway 26 west kept pulling at her attention.

Oregon was so green—even in the snow. A born and raised Okie, Mercury was used to green fading to olive, then sage, and finally brown. This was her fourth trip to Timberline Lodge, and she was still amazed at seeing the multiple shades of green along with the snow. She looked forward to getting closer to Portland, where the snow would be replaced by ferns and thick, spongy-looking moss. As they drove, the verdant landscape worked like a white noise machine.

Her eyelids grew heavy and had just begun to flutter closed when Amelia’s tentative voice broke the spell.

“Um, sorry, but I need to stop.”

Mr. Hale glanced at her. His lips pressed into tight disapproval.

Amelia shrugged and patted her basketball-sized belly. “He decided to quit kicking my ribs and is now jumping up and down on my bladder. Or at least that’s what it feels like.”

Hale’s voice was as tight as his lips. “We’ve only passed Government Park a few minutes ago. We are not even twenty miles from the lodge.”

“I really can’t help it.” Amelia’s voice sounded small, and that pissed Mercury off.

Mercury leaned forward, which caused Stella to wake up and blink blearily. “Hey, she’s pregnant. Just stop and let her pee. Jesus.”

“I’m awake because Amelia has to pee?” Stella grumped.

“No, you’re awake because Mr. Hale is being a misogynist bully,” said Mercury as she caught the principal’s gaze in the rearview 26

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mirror. She shook her head at him like he was an errant student, and he quickly looked away.

“It’s just that there’s no rest stop near,” he muttered.

“I don’t need a rest stop,” Amelia blurted out as she patted her purse. “I brought toilet paper. I’m cool with peeing in the woods.”

Coach Davis stretched and said, “Hey, don’t I remember one of those scenic lookout places not far from here?”

“Yep,” said Stella around a yawn. “We stopped there two years ago on the way to the lodge.”

Mercury raised a brow at her friend. “Oh yeah, that’s where you puked, right?”

Stella shuddered. “Yes. It’s also the last time I ate prosciutto.

Never. Again.”

“Doesn’t that brown sign say ‘scenic turnout’?” Amelia pointed off to the left of highway 26.

The principal sighed and began to slow the SUV. “We’ll stop.

But this isn’t a joy ride. Get out. Do your business. Then let’s get going again.”

“Hey, we didn’t take our annual selfie,” said Stella.

“Perfect opportunity! With an amazing background.” Mercury nodded as Hale guided the SUV into the turn lane and then crossed over to the gravelly scenic turnout spot. As he parked and Amelia lumbered from the passenger seat, the women poured from the SUV. “Hey! I said we need to get going!” Hale said.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Hale,” Jenny said, dimpling at him. “Let’s all take a picture.”

Coach Davis clapped the principal on the shoulder. “It’s just a picture, and we did leave in plenty of time to make it to the airport.”

Mrs. Gay closed her magazine and sighed. “Mr. Hale, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I would like to take a picture of the scenery for my classroom. The history of this pass is as rich as it is tragic.”

“See?” Coach Davis said. “It’s unanimous.”

“Okay, I suppose we do have some extra time,” the principal grumbled as he reluctantly followed the teachers. “But let’s make it quick.”

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c

h

a

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he scenic turnout was really not much more than a gravel parking lot and two wooden benches positioned in the middle of a well-tended grassy area. But it was surrounded by huge, old pines framing a breathtaking drop-off that allowed viewers a gorgeous vantage point to gaze southwest. From the scenic perch on the side of Mount Hood, travelers could look out on a view so spectacular that they could see almost to the coast.

Mercury bypassed the benches and went to the edge of the grass.

She stretched and then rubbed her sweater-swathed arms in a failed attempt to warm them while she drank in gulps of cold mountain air enriched with birdsong, and stared. She loved Tulsa. Oklahoma’s red dirt was in her soul, and she only felt truly at peace in her hometown, but Mercury appreciated the magnificence of the land before her. It seemed she stood on a magic mountain as the view unfolded in turquoise, cerulean, and shades of emerald that were many layered and brilliant.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Stella said around a yawn as she joined her.

“I never get tired of all the green. I think I could live here, or at least down there”—she jerked her chin in the direction of Portland— “where it’s not so cold.”

Stella snorted. “Leave Tulsa? You? Girl, you bleed red dirt.”

“Well, someday when I’m rich I’ll buy a second house here,” Mercy said wistfully.

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Stella raised a perfectly plucked brow. “So, you changing jobs?”

“Nope. Winning the lottery. I have it all planned.” Mercury smoothed her loose knit sweater over her generous curves and cleared her throat like she was preparing to lecture her AP biology class.

Stella tossed back her thick hair. “Ooh, I like this game. Will you buy me a car? Something red and sporty with a ragtop?”

“Absolutely. You have my word on it. And I’ll take you on a spa vacay with me to somewhere warm and beachy.” Mercury spoke without moving her gaze from the view.

“Did someone say beach vacay?” Jenny hurried up to them, with Amelia waddling in tow.

“If we’re going to a beach vacay, could we please wait until I’m unpregnant?”

Mercury grinned, but kept her focus on the horizon. “Absolutely.

I’m not even going to make any clichéd beached-whale jokes.”

Amelia rubbed her protruding belly and sighed. “As the sole representative of our English Department, I thank you for that.”

Coach Davis straightened his school sweatshirt as he emerged from the trees to their right. “Whew, had to see a man about a horse!

Ready for our selfie?”

“What does that even mean?” Mercury asked Stella.

“Manspeak for peeing,” whispered Amelia.

“Well, I know that, but why?” said Mercury.

“Come on, ladies!” The coach’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“This is a great spot.” He took in the view and pointed to the northwest. “That’s Portland over there. And you can even see Salem.”

Davis gestured to the south. “Wow! It’s just amazing.”

“I forget you grew up in Oregon,” Jenny said.

“Yep! Born in Bend, which isn’t very far south of Timberline.

OSU recruited me to play college football and, well, after that I just stayed.”

“Oklahoma grew on you.” Jenny grinned.

“Seems like it,” Coach Davis agreed, then he looked over his shoulder at the second of the two benches where Karen Gay was seated as she snapped several pictures with her phone. “Karen—Mr. Hale, join us!” Coach Davis gestured magnanimously.

Mrs. Gay stood and buttoned the top of her thick cardigan. “It really is a lovely view,” she said as she joined the group.

Everyone looked expectantly at their principal.

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Richard Hale waved dismissively from his bench. “No, you go ahead. I’ll just take in the scenery.”

Mercury walked quickly to him. “While you do that, how about helping us out?” She handed him her phone. “It’d be great if you took the picture. That way we can be sure we’ll all be in it.”

“Yeah, unlike last year when someone’s head got cut off,” called Stella as she pointed to herself.

Hale squinted at the phone. “What do I press?”

Mercury showed him and then jogged the few yards back to the little group. She stepped between Stella and Jenny and put her arms around their waists. “Squish together!” she said.

“Are y’all ready?” asked their principal.

“Yep,” Mercury said. “Say summer break!”

“Summer break!” they shouted.

“Hang on,” said Hale. “Don’t move yet. I’ll take a few more just to be sure I got a good one.” He stood and tapped the phone several more times while the group grinned at him. When he appeared satisfied, he went to Mercury and gave back her phone, his gaze focused over her shoulder. “It is an amazing view. I’m glad we stopped.”

“It’s always good to appreciate the beauty of our God’s creation,” said Karen Gay. Mercury considered reminding Mrs. Gay, for the zillionth time, that not everyone was a member of Church on the Move, nor an evangelical Christian—nor, for that matter, a Christian at all. But she chose not to waste her breath. As a Pagan living in the Bible Belt, Mercury was more than aware that people like Karen Gay believed anyone who didn’t worship like they did was not just going to hell in a handbasket, but was also a bad person. And that Pagans in particular weren’t just going to hell, but were Satan’s minions—or some such nonsense. Sadly, experience had taught her that no amount of logic would change a mind that was closed. Instead of wasting her breath on Mrs. Gay’s narrow mind, Mercury turned back to the view, but her attention was pulled to the parking lot by the crunch of gravel as a faded blue Chevy pickup pulled off the highway and parked. Two men climbed out, stretched, and headed for the tree line.

“Looks like they have to see a man about a horse too,” said Coach Davis.

“That truck!” Stella said. “I swear it looks exactly like the old pickup my dad taught me to drive on.” She laughed softly. “It had a 30

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stick shift on the floor, and whenever I put it into third gear, I had to keep my hand on it because if I didn’t, the damn thing would fall off the column and plop on the floorboard.”

“That’s crazy,” Mercury said.

“Absolutely.” Stella grinned and her voice turned nostalgic. “But I can drive anything with a stick shift.”

“Is there anything still drivable with a stick? I mean, except for an eighteen-wheeler or whatever.” Jenny squinted at the truck like it was an exotic insect.

“Barely,” Coach Davis spoke up. “What’s the year on that old Chevy, 1960-something?”

“Dad’s was a 1959, and that one looks pretty similar,” said Stella.

“Wow, they don’t make ’em like—” Coach Davis began, but his words were interrupted by a bizarre humming that filled the air around them.

“What the—” Richard Hale spoke over the vibrating sound.

He’d returned to his bench, but stood and stared, slack-jawed, out at the view.

The little group stared too, while the humming intensified. Mercury cringed—whatever it was seemed to reverberate through her body. The hair on her forearms lifted and pain knifed through her head. Beside her, Stella put her hands over her ears and staggered against Mercury.

“Look!” Coach Davis pointed up at the western sky.

Mercury saw something that appeared to be a contrail, like an airplane would leave in its wake, far above the area Davis had said was the city of Portland. It was heading straight down in an arrowlike trajectory.

“And there!” Amelia pointed southwest to a similar contrail.

“Oh my God, they’re everywhere!” Jenny cried.

Mercury’s gaze scanned the sky as she turned in a stationary circle. Jenny was right. In the distance all around them tails of cloudy white shot down from the sky, so many that she couldn’t count them all. The humming intensified as a huge mass of birds that had been perched in the trees surrounding them took wing as one—each screeching horrible, soul-shaking cries that echoed eerily around the clearing. From the tree line the two men dashed out to stand a few yards from them as everyone studied the sky.

Stella grabbed Mercury’s hand as the contrail over Portland disappeared into the city. She leaned into her best friend and spoke for

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her ears alone. “I think this is bad. Really bad. We need to get out of here.”

Mercury opened her mouth to respond just as the first blast hit Portland. It created an enormous rising burst of fire that was almost perfectly round, like a gigantic crystal ball filled with flame.

“There too! In Salem!” Coach Davis shouted as another fire circle lifted from the southwest. From all around them, the outlook allowed a front-row seat to watch brilliant balls of fire explode everywhere, with such force they seemed to eclipse the sun.

Then a wall of sound echoed from the many balls of flame, followed immediately by bizarre flashes of green that jetted from the center of each fireball. Mercury was looking directly at the Portland ball when the explosion of sound met the green geyser—it changed shape, expanded, and became a wall of emerald that catapulted out, out, out. Like an impossibly swift tsunami of color, the glow rushed from the core of fire to cover the city and the surrounding land, and raced toward them.

Mercury stared at the green tide and was filled with the strangest feeling of panic mixed with fascination. There was something about the green—something that evoked the Wizard of Oz and concealed mysteries—something as intriguing as it was terrifying.

“Get the fuck down!” Stella screamed and pulled Mercury to the grassy ground with her. Jenny and Amelia did the same, but she could see that Coach Davis, Mr. Hale, and Mrs. Gay were frozen as they stared at the advancing wall of roiling green.

The emerald cloud hit them with sonic boom intensity. Had Mercury not already dropped to the ground, she would have been knocked off her feet. She clung to Stella with one hand and covered her head with the other as sound, debris, and a wave of green mist engulfed them. Around them thick pines snapped, filling the air with the sounds of gunshots. She could hear someone screaming, though she couldn’t even see Stella through the soupy jade air.

Mercury panted with fear and shock—and inhaled the moist shamrock-colored air. It felt like breathing in the forest: the scent of growing things filled her nose with the sharp tang of cut grass, the rich, loamy aroma of tilled earth, and the unique sweetness of wildflowers. Her battered body was overwhelmed with an agonizing pinprick sensation, like she’d sat on her foot too long and it was tingling awake, only this sensation was a flood of pain that broke against her 32

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skin from the inside. It felt like hot razorblades filled her blood, her lungs, her skin with agony.

Mercury knew she screamed and screamed, but the blast of sound that was the harbinger of the green wave still reverberated around her, drowning everything but the internal thunder of her heartbeat echoing in her ears. She and Stella pressed themselves against the earth as their bodies writhed in pain. Mercury felt Jenny shaking beside her as the young teacher sobbed in terror.

Mercury tried to turn her head, to reach out for Jenny, but the earth suddenly mirrored Mercury’s tremors. The ground beneath her cheek shuddered and shook. Forest debris rained shards of bark and pine against her body while another emerald tsunami pummeled them from Salem in the southwest.

Mercury tried to hold her breath, but it was impossible. She gasped with pain and panic, and the green surrounded her and filled her completely. Something struck the side of her head and her face, already wet with tears, became warm with blood.

Then the world went from green to black and she knew no more.

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The Violence is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by D. S. Dawson All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Circle colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Names: Dawson, Delilah S, author.

Title: The violence / Delilah S Dawson.

Description: New York: Del Rey, [2022] Identifiers: LCCN 2021022272 (print) | LCCN 2021022273 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593156629 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593499818 (international edition) | ISBN 9780593156636 (ebook) Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3604.A97858 V56 2022 (print) | LCC PS3604.A97858 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022272 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022273 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper randomhousebooks.com 246897531 First Edition Book design by Caroline Cunningham

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T

he Violence deals with themes of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse and includes animal death and graphic violence. Some of these scenes may be distressing for some readers. Writing this book— and examining these themes—has been part of my own healing journey.

My relationship with my father was complicated. When sober, he was perpetually disappointed in me, and when drunk, he was emotionally and physically abusive. Chelsea’s nights in the kitchen are based on what my mother and I experienced at his hands. He was so well-loved in our hometown that no one believed us. From the outside, things were perfect.

When I was eighteen, my mother and I left, and we met a very special therapist named Betsy. I can’t remember her last name or her exact title, only that she’s the first person who said, “You understand that this is abuse, right? You are being abused.” Until that moment, I didn’t understand. I thought my life was normal. She also sent my father to Narcotics Anonymous, which inspired him to stop drinking. To my knowledge, he never drank alcohol again. But that did not stop him from being emotionally abusive—gaslighting, controlling, and manipulative until the very last. As the Narcissist’s Prayer goes: That

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x | AUTHOR’S NOTE

didn’t happen. And if it did, it wasn’t that bad. And if it was, that’s not a big deal. And if it is, that’s not my fault.

When we left in 1995, the internet wasn’t yet able to answer all our questions, so I’m grateful to the family and friends who helped us— who saved us. Abusers often leave their victims with few resources, but there is help out there. If you’re experiencing abuse, please seek support. You are not alone.

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he first recorded incidence of the Violence occurred as Ruth Belmont of Land O’Lakes, Florida, was putting a tub of mayonnaise in her cart at a warehouse store on Tuesday, April 15, 2025. The peaceful and highly religious grandmother dropped the mayonnaise, reached for a large bottle of Thousand Island dressing, and struck a fellow customer, twenty-four-year-old Melissa Mendoza. Mendoza’s toddler sat in the seat of her buggy and watched silently as the elderly woman beat her mother to death with the bottle of dressing. Once Mendoza was dead, Belmont replaced the dressing on the shelf, selected a new bottle, and attempted to continue shopping. As local law enforcement tackled her to the ground, Belmont screamed, cried, and claimed innocence. Store cameras captured the grisly scene.

When the Violence was discovered to be a disease, Belmont was released from jail. She is now suing the state for $1.3 million in damages, including a broken collarbone. Later sufferers were not so lucky.

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1.

C

helsea Martin sits in a perfect sunbeam at her perfect kitchen table, staring at the piece of paper that’s going to destroy her life.

Insufficient funds? Impossible.

Her husband, David, manages their bank accounts, and he’s in finance, so this must be a mistake. She’s read the aggressively detached, computer-printed words a hundred times, and an unwelcome sensation roils, deep in her stomach, her coffee threatening to come back up. It’s not panic, not yet, but it’s not good.

Would David tell her if they were in trouble? She glances at her phone and considers the best way to ask without insulting him. A text would be safest; he hates it when her voice wobbles. He says she cries too easily, that it’s impossible to have a conversation with her when she’s so emotional.

No, not worth it. He’ll come home and see the paper, and he’ll handle it. Let him be angry at the bank, not the messenger, and let him be angry later rather than both now and later. She unconsciously puts a hand to her throat and swallows hard, dreading what will happen when he gets home from work.

Definitely not worth bothering him now.

She tries to focus on what she was doing before the mail arrived,

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but she knows logging onto the online portal and watching the mandatory weekly “Let’s Sell Dreams!” video will only make her feel worse. When she signed her contract to sell Dream Vitality essential oils, she’d hoped it would give her some small amount of independence, something to do, something to be proud of. Now, staring into the depths of a wooden case filled with tiny purple bottles, all full and unopened and gathering dust, she never wants to smell bergamot again.

A brand-new cardboard box waits in the foyer, her monthly required shipment optimistically labeled dream delivery! But after a year of trying to sell a product that’s supposed to sell itself, she’s ready to admit defeat. She had a dream: to start her own business, build savings, and tap into a network of smart, motivated women. Instead, she’s alienated friends through the required social media posts, embarrassed her daughters, and outlived her welcome at every party and playgroup, and all she has to show for it is boxes and boxes of product that she can’t even sell at cost. Even before the—surely incorrect?— overdraft notice arrived today, she worried that this month’s withdrawal would take her over her strict budget, and that when David found it during his account check, things would get . . . bad.

The hardest thing is that her attempt at entrepreneurship has shown her that most of her friends online aren’t really friends. There’s no support, no sharing, no purchases, no reviews. Everyone just ignores it. The only encouragement she gets comes from a back-rubbing circle of other plucky moms trying to support one another in an online group with good vibes only, and she wonders if everyone else also secretly feels this constant exhaustion, this disconnection, this profound loneliness.

It was supposed to save her, but it just got her in more trouble.

Buck up, bitch, she tells herself. It’s just oil.

Not that it makes her feel any better.

She runs her hands through what’s slowly becoming her mother’s hair as her stylist increasingly covers the gray with bleach in a process with a French name that doubles the cost. The perfect pool sparkles outside the picture window, but she can’t jump in because it would make her hair as crisp as uncooked spaghetti with a bonus mossy

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tinge. She looks around at the shiplap, the granite, the Edison bulbs, the seasonal throw pillows. Everything is perfect, but nothing is right.

Even the snowy-white dog snoring on a matching dog bed is boutique—a shedless bichon named Olaf that cost more than Chelsea’s first car, because David couldn’t stand the thought of dog hair rolling along the marble floors like tumbleweeds. Poor, sweet Olaf is terrified of him and spends most of his time hiding in a closet. But then again, Olaf is deeply inbred, a yipping bag of neuroses and surprise puddles of pee.

The big and airy house is the complete opposite of the shitbox apartments Chelsea grew up in. It should be beautiful and relaxing, but it’s closing in on her, an avalanche of stuff and the never-ending work it takes to keep that stuff either proudly displayed at perfect angles or hidden from view, to keep everything running. She never imagined that life would be like this, that she would feel so constantly trapped.

Chelsea is pouring another cup of coffee that will barely touch her bone-deep disquiet when the doorbell rings, sending her entire body rigid. She scans the wall calendar, the dates empty of commitments and the top crammed with posed pictures of her family in matching crisp white shirts, but no one is due to work on the house or make a delivery. Between Dream Vitality and David, most of her old friends keep their distance these days, which means only one thing. Her feet already know it and are propelling her backward, away from the soaring foyer and toward the laundry room, where the windows are too high up to tattle on her as she hides. The garage door is closed, after all; there’s no way to tell she’s home.

And then her phone buzzes in her hand, and the text pops up on the screen.

I know you’re in there.

Even the laundry room can’t save her. Back in the kitchen, she gulps her coffee and slams the gray ceramic mug down almost too hard, the blond liquid splashing onto the black granite. She hurries to the huge master bathroom, brushing her hair and touching up her lipstick. Her mascara is running, just a little, making her blue eyes pop, and she dabs a tissue under each eye. There’s a tiny coffee stain

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on her shirt, so she throws on a new one and jabs midsized diamond studs into her ears—not so small that they look like all she can afford but not so big that it seems like she’s trying too hard.

When the knock comes, it’s light and jovial.

Tap tap tap-tap-tap.

It’s just little old me, the knock seems to say. Just a friendly visit.

If malignant narcissism could knock, it would sound like that.

Knowing that if she doesn’t hurry, she’ll hear the scrape of the mat being moved aside and the emergency key turning in the lock, Chelsea scurries across the tile, checks the peephole to confirm, and opens the door with the sort of smile that chimps use when they’re about to get torn limb from limb by bigger chimps.

“Well, that took you long enough,” says Patricia Lane, her own answering smile proper and polite and yet the sort that reflects the stronger ape promising a primordial beat-down with a femur bone.

“Eighty-six degrees today. In April! I’m lucky I didn’t melt out here.”

Witches melt in rain, not sun, Chelsea wants to say but doesn’t. And you’ve lived in Central Florida your whole life, so move away if you hate it so much. But, just like with David, talking back only makes it worse.

“Hi, Mom. Come on in.”

There is no hug, no posh and affected air kisses, definitely no real kisses.

There never have been.

Patricia straightens the cardigan knotted over her silk shell and looks down her nose at her only daughter before sweeping into the foyer. “I’m not a vampire, darling. I’m family. I’m always welcome.”

If she’s being honest, Chelsea knows her mother looks more like she’s actually Chelsea’s older sister. Patricia’s hair is blonder, her face is tanner and still smooth, her clothes are neater, and her figure is still so trim that they could trade clothes if they had anything close to the same taste. The diamonds in her ears and on her fingers and wrist don’t say, I’m just the right size; they suggest that, given the slightest provocation, they would delicately shred you to ribbons while explaining the Mohs scale in the most patronizing manner possible. Chelsea’s mother, as David says, puts in the work.

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As Chelsea locks the door behind her, Patricia turns a slow circle, raising one perfect eyebrow at the chandelier.

“You have to remind them to dust, dear,” she says, almost sad. “Let these once-a-week cleaning services get away with one thing, and soon they’ll stop dusting the baseboards and you’ll find cash missing.

Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

Chelsea looks up at the chandelier but can’t see any dust.

“So what did you need?” she asks, hoping to end the visit as soon as possible while still appearing polite so she won’t get another lecture.

Patricia’s gaze stops checking the glass over the family portraits for water spots and lands on Chelsea, the older woman’s frown going deeper without making any creases in the smoothly filled putty of her face.

“Does a mother need a reason to visit her daughter?” she asks, sounding wounded. “Can I not simply take a loving interest in your life?”

Chelsea smiles as her teeth grind together. “Of course you can.

What did you want to talk about? Ella and Brooklyn are doing well in school—” Patricia sighs the sigh of the sorely aggrieved and swans toward the kitchen, where she plucks a mug from its hook, frowns at its interior, and wipes it out with the kitchen towel before pouring herself a cup of black coffee. She sips it, eyes closed, expectant, then makes a face.

“These beans are burned. I told you: You can’t just buy any old bag at the store.”

Holding up the twenty-dollar bag of single-origin coffee from a specialty shop, Chelsea presents it for inspection. “I didn’t.”

Instead of taking the bag or even looking at it, Patricia flaps a hand at it in a gesture that reminds Chelsea of how her mother treats sticky toddlers. “Then you bought the wrong kind. Your generation, I swear.

Can’t tell you anything.”

Patricia’s gaze tracks around the kitchen like an airport security dog hunting for more delicious contraband, and Chelsea realizes her mistake the moment her mother goes on point, eyes alight and smile curling up.

“Oh!” She puts down her mug of coffee and saunters over to the

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wooden cabinet still sitting on the kitchen table. “Are you still doing your . . . little business thingy?” Patricia pulls out a bottle at random and twists off the top, breaking the seal and making Chelsea wince as she sniffs. “Ugh. Thieving Blend? It smells like angry Christmas at the Dollar Store. Do people actually pay for that?”

Chelsea can recite the ingredients, uses, and benefits of the oil by rote, but that would be a mistake, as would be revealing that the simple twist of the cap has cost her twenty dollars that was a problem even before that damn letter arrived today.

“They do, actually. Fifty dollars a pop.” She takes the bottle from Patricia’s long, slender fingers, re-caps it, and places it back in the cabinet. “It’s our most popular product. And it’s why none of us got the flu this winter. They say it helps Covid long-haulers, too.”

Patricia’s nose is all wrinkled up, making her look like a French bulldog. “Well. It’s not something I would count on, but I suppose you Millennials like to believe in false hope and woo-woo snake oil instead of hard work.” She picks up her cup again and sips, gazing into the backyard like she’s in a commercial and they’re about to have a mistyeyed heart-to-heart about feeling not so fresh. Chelsea is very glad the yard crew came earlier this morning to pick up the fallen branches.

“You know, Chel, I worry about you. You have everything you need here, but you’re always fiddling around with some little . . . enterprise.

There was the internet university, which you dropped out of, I believe, long ago. The blogging. You tried to write a book once, and that went nowhere. You sewed face masks. And now the oils. I sincerely worry about you setting yourself up for disappointment. A woman is nourished by her family, not her . . . experiments.”

Chelsea loosens her fingers from her fists before that, too, comes under scrutiny. If family was what nourished women, her mother would be a dancing skeleton; she wrote off her entire family when Chelsea was born, probably out of embarrassment, and she only shows up here when she has an agenda or needs to whet her claws.

“I need something to do, Mom. Both girls are in school. I get restless.”

Patricia’s face attempts something similar to pity, and she sets down her coffee cup and stands before Chelsea, reaching out to arrange her

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daughter’s hair over her shoulders and sighing when it won’t cooperate. Chelsea’s skin crawls, but she knows better than to flinch.

“If you’re so restless, perhaps that energy could be directed inward.

A new hairstyle. A Peloton or yoga. Some time at the spa. Get a little work done.” She taps Chelsea’s forehead with one cold finger. “My doctor is a genius. And diet shakes these days might as well be milkshakes. So rich!”

Rage runs red up Chelsea’s neck, heating her cheeks and forehead.

She briefly envisions snatching her mother’s finger and breaking it in her hands like a pencil. Words tumble through her head a mile a minute, ranging from If we’re the same size, why do I need more exercise? to Independence is more important than pretending I’m half my age, not that you’d understand that to If I’d married an older man to get rich, perhaps I’d be that complacent, too. But the thing about her mother’s pronouncements is that they are in no way about Chelsea, and Chelsea knows that. Like most things in her life, fighting back only makes things infinitely worse.

“Maybe I will,” she says. “The yoga, I mean. Thanks for caring, Mom.” Patricia’s eyes close, and she does a sinuous little shoulder shimmy, as if eating compliments could sustain her. The funny thing is that Chelsea remembers how her mother spoke when she was poor, before she set her sights on marrying rich and dropped her southern accent and habit of screaming at people who didn’t do what she wanted. This current version of Patricia is a creation, her mother’s own little . . . experiment. And it worked, damn her.

“I only want what’s best for you, dear. I always have. You must take care of yourself. For the children.” Patricia glances at the family calendar, bright with pictures of Ella and Brooklyn at the beach, and frowns. “When was that trip? I don’t remember being invited.”

But before Chelsea can answer, Patricia has snatched up the overdraft notice from the counter and is reading it as avidly as one of those gossip magazines she hides under her bathroom sink but pretends to hate. She gasps, a hand to her chest.

“Chelsea, what is this? Overdrawn?”

Teeth grinding so hard she’s worried she’ll bust open a crown,

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Chelsea snatches the page back and folds it decisively, stuffing it in the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “Nothing. A mistake. David will handle it.”

Patricia licks her lips like a fox and steps forward, a bony hand on each of Chelsea’s shoulders. Her signature scent invades Chelsea’s nose and mouth, lilies and poisonous white flowers, and she wants to turn away and retch.

“Darling,” her mother says, weighty and pitying, her eyes innocently wide. “If you’re in trouble, you can tell me.”

Not I’ll help you, Chelsea notes, but You can tell me.

“We’re fine, Mom.” Chelsea shrugs and tries to grin. “Look around you. We’re doing fine.”

Patricia does look around, but almost as if she’s afraid the house will fall down on her.

“Then I’m certain David knows what he’s doing. But I should run.

So busy. You know how it is.”

As her mother swiftly sashays back to the front door, running a finger along the top of the wainscoting and frowning at it, Chelsea wonders if she would even know if she was having a heart attack. Tight throat, aching chest, hot forehead, numb fingers—these are the symptoms of being around Patricia Lane for any amount of time. Thank heavens her mother takes off to her condo in the Outer Banks for major holidays, claiming the children give her migraines. Chelsea wonders if it makes her sad and lonely, celebrating Christmas in a beautifully appointed but empty beach house while her latest husband golfs, but she would never ask such a thing. Her mother might actually tell her the answer.

“Thanks for stopping by,” she says at the door.

Patricia turns around, forehead wearing one elegant and rebellious crease. “There was something I wanted to tell you, but I can’t remember what it was. Never get old, darling. I swear, my mind is a sieve.”

Chelsea smile-grimaces in understanding and opens the door.

“Well, you can always text me.”

Patricia steps outside, washed over by the sun’s glare, her hand shielding her eyes. “Texting is just so cold. I don’t understand how the younger generations can eschew real connection.”

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There is no satisfactory answer to that, so Chelsea cheerfully says, “Bye, Mom!” Patricia nods once, turns on her kitten-heeled sandal, and marches down the sidewalk before stopping halfway to her car.

“No, I remember!” she calls, not troubling herself to take any further steps back toward her daughter. “There’s a news story going around. Some sort of new virus? Not like Covid. People are acting funny. Violent. There was an incident at some value store. Someone died. Beaten to death with off-brand Thousand Island dressing, if you can believe it!”

Chelsea fights for control; her mother is almost gone, and she doesn’t want to give Patricia any reason to stay.

“Okay, so check the news and don’t go to the store. Got it. Thanks, Mom!” Patricia takes a single step closer, her eyes pleading. “No, dear.

Don’t go to that store. You can look it up on the internet. Find out more. Maybe wear a mask. Just be careful. For the children.”

For me, she means.

Her mother doesn’t particularly like her, but she doesn’t want to go through the fussy burden of death again, either. Losing her first husband was just so inconvenient—her word—especially when his kids got all his money and she had to find a newer, richer husband in time for the country club’s summer gala. If something happened to Chelsea or her girls, her mom might have to cancel her standing hair appointment.

Having delivered her message, Patricia spins back around and hurries to her sleek white sedan.

She doesn’t wave as she leaves, but she does run over the newly planted begonias.

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2.

P

atricia checks her makeup in her rearview mirror, deciding that she’ll give her next Estée Lauder free gift bag to Chelsea, as the poor girl desperately needs a more expensive mascara and some sort of color on her cheeks. The thing about Chelsea is that she’s been weak, sullen, and resentful from the moment she was born, kicking and screaming, but is it really so hard to try a new lipstick? Patricia has always been open to those handy little women’s tricks and is satisfied with what she sees in the mirror, although her forehead needs a touchup. She puts her car in reverse and backs up, letting out a ladylike gasp as the tires bump over something inconvenient in the driveway, probably a hose or a newspaper or something else that should’ve been put away. If Rosa or Miguel left something like that in Patricia’s driveway, they’d get a good talking-to.

Chelsea’s neighborhood isn’t too horrible, but the gate takes a terribly long time to rattle open. As Patricia drives, other motorists honk behind her for doing something as reasonable as going the speed limit on a curving lakeside road. Annoyed, she switches through radio stations, but they’re all shouting and grousing and moaning about that unfortunate incident down at the warehouse store, some sort of violence that’s unusual in this kind of area. Not that Patricia would ever

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be in such a store, fighting over toilet paper and cheese puffs with some overstuffed housewife. That’s what the help is for.

Patricia barely misses a green light and is forced to stop her car at a big intersection, and there facing her across the road is a little yellow building, barely a shack. It has a faded sign reading big fred’s floors and crudely built displays out front with ragged versions of what might’ve once been functional if gauche floor coverings, linoleums and tiles and fake wood. But they’re all faded and degraded, and no one in their right mind would be enticed to stop and go into the tiny shop to talk to Big Fred. Jerking red letters tick by on the scrolling digital sign outside. if you’re in the doghouse, get her what she really wants. new floors!

Patricia raises an eyebrow. Like she needs the doghouse excuse if she wants new floors. She would like new floors in the sunroom, actually, but Randall is still complaining about the dust from the last bathroom remodel. She’ll have to wait until he’s on his next two-week fishing trip to the Bahamas with the boys from the courthouse if she wants to get anything done. And she most certainly won’t get her new floors from anything as shabby as a swaybacked shack that resembles all too closely the one-room millhouse she lived in when Chelsea was a baby. She’s done her best to forget those days, the struggle and mess and noise. She’s risen above it. It’s over. The shack is simply a grotesque reminder of how hard she’s worked to get here.

The light finally, thankfully, turns green, and she’s no longer forced to stare at the scrolling words prodding her inelegantly to move forward with her next remodel. Her visit with Chelsea was just too tiresome, so now she’s early for her weekly lunch with Randall, but there’s always plenty to do at the club, especially now that she’s a member of the charity auction committee. Her first husband was a member at Emerald Cove Country Club, too, and so she’s enjoyed uninterrupted service here for almost twenty years. Hank waves her through at the gate, and she parks farther away from the clubhouse than she’d like, but at least she finds a spot in the shade. As she walks up the sidewalk, she subtly touches her bracelet, necklace, earrings, hair. She straight-

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ens her cardigan and runs a hand down the pleats on her slacks and looks down at her pedicure as she steps onto the curb. Patricia is not a religious woman, but this is her sign of the cross. This is how she blesses herself, how she keeps herself together. If everything is in place, if everything is perfect, then she’ll be safe.

The automatic glass doors slide open, and her eyes close as cold air billows over her as if washing off the oppressive heat, sweat, and misfortune of the world outside. Within, everything is just so, and Patricia feels very at home here. Inoffensive artworks in pastels with gold frames line the buttery-yellow walls, and the patterned carpets are always spotless and stainless. Plastic plants never die, never wither, never go brown at the tips—and get dusted daily, unlike Chelsea’s chandelier. Barbara Chatham tried to bring a service dog in here once and everyone got so upset that she had to move. That’s how clean it is.

No wonder she feels at home.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lane,” some young person with a fake grin says from the front desk. Patricia lifts a hand the minimum amount and holds her public smile in place. With so many years here at the club, she sometimes forgets she’s Mrs. Lane and not Mrs. Worthington. Or, going further back, a young, unwed mother with a greasy plastic name tag that just said patty.

The doors of the dining room aren’t open yet, and she frowns just a little before pasting her smile back into place and heading for the lounge. She hears the noise before she sees it, the musical murmurs of many women having polite arguments bracketed by I really just think and Wouldn’t we rather consider and That’s how it’s going, but of course I’m not in charge, so what do I know? The little hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Something is occurring in her kingdom without her knowledge. She rounds the corner and peeks in the open French doors to find a conference room filled with familiar faces, led by someone she once considered a friend.

“Patty, is that you?” says an altogether too-triumphant voice. “I was wondering where you were.”

Patricia steps into the open space as the room goes quiet and twenty women look her up and down, their eyes crawling over her like ants looking for some vulnerable crack in a castle. She keeps her chin up

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and smiles that practiced smile, the one that suggests that those in power have never doubted themselves.

“Well, I would’ve been here if I knew you were throwing me a party, Karen,” she all but purrs.

“It’s an emergency meeting,” Lynn pipes up, sounding somewhat strangled. “About the flowers.” Karen shoots her lackey an angry look but doesn’t speak. Patricia raises her brows, demanding an explanation. “The florist canceled. So we need a new florist for the auction.”

If there were an empty seat, Patricia would sashay in and take it, but Karen has made very sure that’s not possible, just as she’s made very sure no one has alerted her co-chair to this secret meeting. The histrionic old bat is probably planning to bring in carnations with baby’s breath or some other horrific thing.

“That’s easy,” Patricia says, snapping her fingers and making her diamonds rattle. “Randall’s golf friend’s wife is a florist. They’re playing today. I’ll set it up. See? No problem at all. I hope you weren’t all inconvenienced by Karen’s . . . little meeting.” She holds up her wrist and smiles brightly at her new watch. “Well, look at the time! I wouldn’t want to be late for lunch with the judge. I’ll email you all confirmation of the new florist this afternoon. And I’ll make sure they go with our original plan for exotics. Those birds-of-paradise are going to look so classic. Ta-ta!”

Wiggling her fingers at them, she turns her back and sashays out the doors and toward the dining room. It’s not actually open yet, but the key to winning these battles is the same as it was when she was young and that bitch named Candy would try to steal her tips at the diner. Get in, go for the jugular, get out. She still has a hank of Candy’s hair saved somewhere, a battle trophy that reminds her that the best way to get rid of enemies is to make them regret ever opposing her in the first place.

She’s sitting on the settee outside the dining room, listening to the promising clink of silver and china, when her phone rings. She pulls it out of her Birkin and holds it just a bit away from her ear; she saw a Facebook post about how holding it too close causes cancer, and she doesn’t like the feeling of her diamond earrings scraping the screen.

“Hello?”

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“That you, sugar?” Randall’s voice is low and honey-sweet, which makes Patricia frown. She knows what that voice means.

“Well, who else would be answering my phone?” She knows she sounds peevish, and she wants him to know it, too. “Where are you?

They’re about to open the doors.”

“That’s just the thing, darlin’. I’m afraid I can’t join you today. The depositions are going long—” Which is code for his secretary is staying in for lunch, which Patricia knows because early in their marriage she tried to surprise him with his favorite chicken sandwich and instead walked in on the trampy little thing scuttling out of his office with smeared lipstick, an unbuttoned blouse, and eyes just bleeding mascara.

“So I’ll probably miss dinner, too. You know how it is.”

Her smile is a scythe.

“Yes, I do.”

“So you just go on with your girls and order some champagne and have a day, okay? Whatever you want.”

The doors open, revealing an empty dining room sparkling and ready, fresh flowers on every table and sunbeams streaming in crystalclear windows that showcase immaculate emerald greens beyond.

She knows that if she keeps watching, she’ll see men driving golf carts with their wives by their sides, laughing and drinking beer and playfully taunting each other, and other couples happily power-walking the nature trails with English setters or riding the powder-blue bikes lined up outside the club office. Frank and Emily Lambert walk past her and into the restaurant, arm in arm, laughing, and are seated at the best table in the house, the one Patricia was hoping to secure for their lunch today.

“You have a good day, sweetheart,” he recites.

“You, too,” she dutifully responds, like the recorded voice box of those dreadful programmed teddy bears her youngest granddaughter loves so much, the ones with the elaborately obscene stuffing ritual at the mall that you’re forced to watch, some teenager shoving the furry rag’s rear end over a pipe as it fills to bursting with fluff.

The line clicks off, and she holds the phone up for a few moments more as if he’ll remember that he didn’t apologize at all.

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Other women love their husbands, she thinks. But she loved a man once, or thought she did, and look where it got her. Eighteen and knocked up. Abandoned by him, driven away by her family. Destroyed. Every man after that has been merely a necessity, a ladder rung to safety and then, much later, when she’d earned it, to comfort.

Her first husband, the contractor, found and secured after Chelsea was finally out of the house at eighteen, brought her legitimacy and respect. Her second husband, the judge, has brought her power and wealth.

Maybe when he dies, rutting with his secretary over his mahogany desk, she’ll finally get those new floors.

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The Paradox Hotel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Rob Hart All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hart, Rob (Fiction writer), author.

Title: The Paradox Hotel: a novel / Rob Hart.

Description: First Edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, [2022] Identifiers: LCCN 2021015892 (print) | LCCN 2021015893 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984820648 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984820655 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593499085 (international edition) Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3608.A7868 P37 2022 (print) | LCC PS3608.A7868 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021015892 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021015893 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper randomhousebooks.com 123456789 First Edition Frontispiece and title-page images © Goettingen, iStock Book design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno

QUANTUM ENTRAPMENT

D

roplets of blood pat the blue carpet, turning from red to black as they soak into the fibers. The drops come slow at first, before turning to a trickle as the bones of my skull squeeze like a hand around my brain. My body yearns to release the tension in my shoulders, to let the pressure off my knees, to lay down and go to sleep.

Except it won’t be sleep.

It won’t really be death either. Something more in-between.

A permanent vacancy.

This moment has been chasing me for years. The third stage, when the strands of my perception unravel and my ability to grasp the concept of linear time is lost.

More pats on the carpet. But the blood from my nose has stopped flowing.

Heavier, from the other end of the hallway, getting closer.

Footsteps.

Maybe I can fight this. A handful of Retronim. A cherry lollipop.

What if I scream? I open my mouth. Nothing comes out but blood.

The footsteps get closer.

This is the moment when my brain will short- circuit. That’s the third stage of being Unstuck. No one really knows why it happens.

The prevailing theory is your mind finds itself in a quantum state and – The Paradox Hotel: A Novel by Rob Hart –

57

4

ROB HART

can’t handle the load. Others think you witness the moment of your death. I don’t give a shit about the “why” of it. I just know the result doesn’t look pleasant: a glassy- eyed coma that’ll last as long as my body holds out.

The pressure increases. More blood. Maybe I’ll bleed to death first.

Small victories.

In a moment I’ll be gone. Probably reality too. The timestream is broken and I’m the only one who can fix it, but instead I’m dying on the floor. Sorry, universe.

I slip again, memories rattling around my brain like rocks in a tin can. Sitting in my bed, the smell of garlic and chili paste frying in the kitchen, wafting upstairs. Graduating the academy, walking across the gymnasium stage, new heels tearing at the skin of my feet while I scan the sea of folding chairs.

The first time I let Mena kiss me, the two of us alone on the balcony overlooking the lobby.

That taste of cherries, and everything I ever needed.

The footsteps stop.

I feel it, the displacement of air, the gravity of another person, standing there, watching me writhe on this dumb blue carpet. Nothing I can do now. It’s over. But I’m not going to die on my hands and knees.

With the last of my strength I push up . . .

Tap-tap-tap.

Doctor Tamworth is holding his pen an inch above the flat expanse of his desk, looking at me like I might bite him. Which, the day is young.

I take a second to situate myself. The fluorescent light is so white it’s almost blue, to match the sky-blue walls and dark blue linoleum tile. So much of this place is blue, which is calming, or so I’ve been told. The room is otherwise bare, save a small tablet on the desk, a diploma on the wall from a university in his home country of Bangla58

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T H E PA R A D O X H OT E L

5

desh, and a half- eaten deli sandwich in a cardboard clamshell container. I can smell the sting of the vinegar, the funk of the cheese. My stomach growls at it. Ruby is hovering in its usual spot over my shoulder, too close by half.

“Where were you just now, January?” Tamworth asks.

“Right here, Doc,” I tell him, which is only mostly a lie, because the place I slipped to is gone. Something about carpet? I reach for it, but it disappears between my fingers like smoke. Probably not important.

“It didn’t look like you were here,” Tamworth says, his voice an airy, nasal pitch that seems determined to match the creak of his desk chair. “It looked like you were somewhere else.”

“Your word against mine.”

Tamworth sighs. “No behavioral changes. That’s a start.”

He heaves his blocky frame to a standing position and turns to the cabinet. The rattle of the pill bottle lifts my soul. He places the orange tube of Retronim on the desk, just next to the sandwich.

“I’m increasing your dose,” he says. “Ten milligrams. One pill in the morning, one at night. If you’re slipping a lot you can take a third, but no more than that in a twenty-four-hour period. Your weight.” He raises his hand, spreads his fingers, waves them back and forth. “Figure by the time we get to twenty milligrams in a day, there might be a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

Tamworth slumps in his chair. “Aggression, irritability . . .”

“I must be OD’ing right now.”

He frowns. “Heart palpitations, confusion, hallucinations. Not to mention your kidneys won’t be too happy.”

“Got it,” I tell him, nearly snatching the sandwich, but instead palming the bottle and stuffing it in my pocket. “Take as needed. Like candy.”

His face goes dark. “Do you ever get tired of this?”

I offer him a shrug in response.

“Your latest round of scans came in. Let me show you something.”

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He reaches for the tablet, opens it, and tilts it toward me. The mushy oval on the screen is lit up in greens and blues and reds. “This is the brain of a woman your age who has never stepped foot in the timestream.” Then he swipes, showing another scan with slightly less color around the center of the mass. “This is your brain. Do you see the difference?”

“I’m not a doctor,” I tell him.

“There’s clear degradation in the hypothalamus. We’re still not sure exactly how this works, but we believe the problem is related to the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which regulates the body’s circadian rhythms . . .”

I put up my hand. “Doc, don’t tell me you don’t know how this works, and then tell me you know what’s wrong. I told you. I’m still on the first stage.”

He taps the screen of the tablet with his pen. “Nobody with this much loss of function . . .”

“Except you don’t know how this works, so how do you even form a benchmark?”

He stops and stutters. “January, I’m doing this for your own good.”

“I’ve got my pills, Doc,” I tell him. “And if I hit the second stage you’ll be the first one to know.”

He slaps the tablet on the desk. “Retronim isn’t a cure. All it does is forestall the inevitable. I have serious concerns about you being here. I know it’s supposed to be safe, but look at the clocks. There’s clearly radiation leakage. You ought to be somewhere far away. Why not retire? You hit your tier. Find a beach community. Read books.

Meet someone.”

I put my hands flat on the desk and lean forward, taking time to enunciate each word: “Don’t tell me what I need.”

“If you’re on to the second stage of this, you know what that means,” he says, pleading.

“First.”

“January, I’m not an idiot.”

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7

“You may well be. And I like it here.”

“Really? Because it doesn’t seem that way.” Tamworth peers over my shoulder. “What’s your take on this?”

Ruby whirs a little closer. I consider whacking it against the wall.

Not for any particular reason, just because I consider that a lot. It gives a soft beep and, in its genteel New Zealand accent, says, “Nothing worth reporting, Doctor Tamworth.”

Tamworth rolls his eyes. I don’t have a good insult, nor do I care to formulate one, so I stand and pat the pill bottle in my pocket. It gives another optimistic shake. “Thanks for the lift, Doc. I’ll see you around.” I wave to the drone hovering at my shoulder. “Let’s blow, Ruby.”

“January . . .” Tamworth starts.

“What?”

He looks at me again, ready to say something deeply caring and meaningful, probably. Then he thinks better of it.

As I leave, I realize I could have handled that better.

Could have taken the sandwich.

I should feel bad. It’s not like he’s not wrong. I shouldn’t be here.

But how could I be anywhere else?

I walk to the railing overlooking the hotel lobby and survey my domain.

The swooping lines and rounded corners of the midcentury modern space give it the feel of being simultaneously retro and futuristic.

The lobby is cylindrical and dizzying, starting a hundred feet below me and continuing up another hundred above me. Concentric rings of walkways start at the top—the restaurant, the bar—and continue down, level after level of offices and amenities. All of it linked by elevators and sloped walkways, like a shopping mall built vertically.

The focal point is a brass rod hooked into the ceiling, which plunges into the depths of the lobby. At the end of the rod is a massive, brass astrological clock, hovering a few inches off the floor.

Mena comes out of the spa across the chasm, in her black and – The Paradox Hotel: A Novel by Rob Hart –

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white waitress uniform, carrying an empty drink tray. Her wavy hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and the precise swing of her hips reminds me of how a panther moves. My heart lurches across the empty space between us and I consider calling to her, but before I can open my mouth she turns a corner and disappears.

Mena.

I know she’s not really there.

But she’s also the reason I could never leave this place.

Because what if I do, and I never see her again?

How do I explain that to Tamworth? To anyone?

If I do, they’ll make me leave for sure.

And for the briefest moment, I think the same thing I think every time I see her: a five-minute tram ride. That’s all it would take. I just have to be willing to break the rules I’ve sworn to uphold and maybe destroy reality in the process.

Some days, it seems worth it.

“Big snowstorm about to roll in,” Ruby says. “Blizzard warning.

Hazardous travel conditions.”

Snatched from my daze, I exhale and turn to the drone, which looks like a floating pair of binoculars. It turns to me, rattling the googly eyes I glued to its lens.

“You ruin everything,” I tell it.

“Just doing my job.”

I should get to work. The lobby clock reads 9:17 a.m. I watch the second hand marching across the face.

9:17:24 9:17:25 9:17:26 9:17:25 9:15:26 9:15:27 9:15:28 . . .

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9

Movement around the lobby draws my attention. Lots of people dragging roller bags through the tunnel from Einstein. The lines at the three desks surrounding the clock are deep and getting deeper. Cameo is at concierge, and all the check-in slots are staffed. Still, everyone is in the weeds. Which is not something that makes me happy.

“What’s with the crowd, Rubes?”

“It seems there are some issues at Einstein that have grounded flights,” it says. “Also, I have a message from Reg that he needs to see you.”

“About what?”

“That’s all it says.”

“Haven’t I asked you to not let people leave incomplete messages?

You should have pinged him back and asked for more information.”

Ruby floats for a few seconds before responding. “I didn’t really care to.”

“Thanks.”

“You made me like this.”

I swipe at it, but it dodges out of the way.

“It would help if you were a little faster,” it says.

Whatever. I skip the elevator and take the winding, sloped corridors down to the lobby, where my canvas sneakers squeak on the marble floor. Hanging on one wall is a large oval screen displaying the upcoming trips.

QR3345—Ancient Egypt—DELAYED RZ5902—Battle of Gettysburg—DELAYED ZE5522—Triassic Period—DELAYED HU0193—Renaissance—DELAYED Today is going to be a day.

As I’m crossing to Reg’s office, I clock a guy standing at the coffee urn. My antennae go up. He doesn’t have a bag with him. He’s surveying the room as he sips on a cup of coffee, looking for someone. Tall, – The Paradox Hotel: A Novel by Rob Hart –

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movie- star handsome, motorcycle boots, a leather jacket he actually manages to pull off. Could be a guest, but he’s a bit too scruffy for this lot. His clothes are sharp but not designer. The men who stay here tend to look like they’re dressed for an emergency yacht club meeting.

“Ruby, see the pretty boy over there?” I ask.

“You understand that as an artificially intelligent construct I don’t grasp beauty standards?”

“By the coffee, dummy,” I tell it. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Any reason?”

“Gut.” Reg’s door is cracked so I push it open and find he’s on the phone.

He looks up from his disaster of a desk—paperwork, food wrappers, who knows, maybe a cat?—and shrugs at me, like, why can’t you knock?

I give him a little shrug in response, like, you’re really asking me that?

He goes back to the call, listening intently as I survey the clutter, focusing on my favorite piece: the Sicilian flag he keeps tacked to the wall. Red and yellow, with a woman’s head surrounded by three disembodied legs, which, as I have told him many times, really ought to be the lesbian pride flag, but he does not agree.

“Yeah, I understand that,” he barks into the phone. “Right, but we’re understaffed as it is and . . . no, you listen . . . okay, fine, fine.

Fine!” He taps off the call, slams the phone on the desk, and leans back, pressing his hands into his face like he wants to crush it.

Reg played offensive line in college and while those days are long behind him, he still carries an intimidating thickness. And usually, his charm and personality match his size. Not today. His skin is gray and his white hair, normally gelled into slicked-back spikes, is disheveled.

His lavender button- down shirt is wrinkled and he smells like he bathed in aftershave. He’s giving off some real walk- of- shame vibes, but since the only thing he’s married to is his job, I know a hammer is about to come down on both of us.

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11

“Jan, what was the biggest, bloodiest battle in all of human history?” he asks.

“I had to track someone down after D-Day in Normandy,” I tell him. “That was pretty gnarly.”

“I’m going to book a one-way ticket. It’d be preferable to this.” He sighs. “Those assholes moved it up to tomorrow.”

“Moved what up to tomorrow?” I ask.

“The summit.”

I breathe out a large portion of my soul. The summit. A logistical nightmare that’d been keeping me from sleeping restfully the past few nights, but at least I had until next week to prepare for it. Anger shoots through me like an electric current and I consider digging my thumb into his eye to make myself feel better, but there’s no point taking this out on Reg. The poor guy is just the hotel manager. And clearly, he’s no happier about the change than I am.

This was a TEA call, so I know who to be mad at.

“Does Danbridge know?” I ask.

“He said to take five minutes to calm down before calling him.”

“I’m giving him two, and that’s generous.”

Reg leans back in his seat. “I need a drink. Is it too early for a drink?”

I spot a lottery ticket on the corner of the desk. Reg likes to bet on horses, though he doesn’t do a very good job of it. I give the ticket a tap and say, “You know, you’d be better off putting your money in a pile and burning it. At least it’ll keep you warm.”

He snatches the ticket with one hand, and with the other reaches for the tape dispenser, then affixes it to the bottom of his monitor.

“You gotta have dreams, kid. This is the one that’s gonna change my luck. I know it.” He glances from side to side. “Big jackpot. If I win, I’m going to retire. Someplace down in Mexico. Beautiful women, colorful drinks. Never putting on a pair of full-length pants again.” He laughs to himself. “You should come with.”

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That earns a laugh in return. “You think a few drinks with umbrellas in them are going to improve my disposition?”

“I expect you to have the personality of a battle-ax until the day you die. But you can’t stay here forever, you know.”

“I can try,” I tell him.

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this is A borzoi booK pu blishEd by Alfr Ed A. K nopf Copyright © 2022 by Emily St. John Mandel All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. www.aaknopf.com Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Mandel, Emily St. John, [date] author.

Title: Sea of Tranquility : a novel / Emily St. John Mandel.

Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2022. | “This is a Borzoi book.”

Identifiers: lCCn 2021022674 (print) | lCCn 2021022675 (ebook) | isbn 9780593321447 (hardcover) | isbn 9780593321454 (ebook) Subjects: GsAfd: Epic fiction. | Science fiction.

Classification: lCC pr9199.4.m3347 s43 2022 (print) | lCC pr9199.4.m3347 (ebook) | ddC 813/.6—dc23 lC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022674 lC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022675 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A few paragraphs of this book appeared, in different form, in a short story published in the anthology Imaginary Oklahoma in 2013 and in an article published in The New Republic in 2014.

Jacket photograph by Stephen Coll / Millennium Images U.K. Jacket design by Abby Weintraub Manufactured in Canada First Edition

Mand_9780593321447_all_2p_r1.p.indd 4

9/1/21 11:21 AM

From

Sea

of

T r a n q uil i T y,

available From alFred a. KnopF in Spring 2022

1

No star burns forever. You can say “it’s the end of the world” and mean it, but what gets lost in that kind of careless usage is that the world will eventually literally end. Not “civilization,” whatever that is, but the actual planet.

Which is not to say that those smaller endings aren’t annihilating. A year before I began my training at the Time Institute, I went to a dinner party at my friend Ephrem’s place. He was just back from a vacation on Earth, and he had a story about going on a walk in a cemetery with his daughter, Meiying, who was four at the time. Ephrem was an arborist. He liked to go to old cemeteries to look at the trees. But then they found the grave of another four-year-old girl, Ephrem told me, and he just wanted to leave after that. He was used to graveyards, he sought them out, he’d always said he didn’t find them depressing, just peaceful, but that one grave just got to him. He looked at it and was

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unbearably sad. Also it was the worst kind of Earth summer day, impossibly humid, and he felt like he couldn’t get enough air.

The drone of the cicadas was oppressive. Sweat ran down his back. He told his daughter it was time to go, but she lingered by the gravestone for a moment.

“If her parents loved her,” Meiying said, “it would have felt like the end of the world.”

It was such an eerily astute observation, Ephrem told me, that he stood there staring at her and found himself thinking, Where did you come from? They got out of the cemetery with difficulty—“She had to stop and inspect every goddamn flower and pinecone,” he said—and never went back.

Those are the worlds that end in our day-to-day lives, these stopped children, these annihilating losses, but at the end of Earth there will be actual, literal annihilation, hence the colonies. The first colony on the moon was intended as a prototype, a practice run for establishing a presence in other solar systems in the coming centuries. “Because we’ll have to,” the president of China said, at the press conference where construction on the first colony was announced, “eventually, whether we want to or not, unless we want all of human history and achievement to get sucked into a supernova a few million years down the line.”

I watched footage of that press conference in my sister Zoey’s office, three hundred years after the fact. The president behind the lectern with her officials arrayed around her, a crowd of reporters below the stage. One of them raised his hand: “Are we sure it’s going to be a supernova?”

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3

“Of course not,” the president said. “It could be anything.

Rogue planet, asteroid storm, you name it. The point is that we’re orbiting a star, and all stars eventually die.”

“But if the star dies,” I said to Zoey, “obviously the Earth’s moon goes with it.”

“Sure,” she said, “but we’re just the prototype, Gaspery. We’re just proof of concept. The Far Colonies have been populated for a hundred and eighty years.”

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2

The first moon colony was built on the silent flatlands of the Sea of Tranquility, near where the Apollo 11 astronauts had landed in a long-ago century. Their flag was still there, in the distance, a fragile little statue on the windless surface.

There was substantial interest in immigration to the colony.

Earth was so crowded by then, and such swaths of it had been rendered uninhabitable by flooding or heat. The colony’s architects had set aside space for substantial residential development, which sold out quickly. The developers lobbied successfully for a second colony when they ran out of space in Colony One. But Colony Two was built a little too hastily, and within a century the lighting system on the main dome had failed. The lighting system was meant to mimic the appearance of the sky as viewed from Earth—it was nice to look up and see blue, as opposed to looking up into the void—and when it failed there was no more

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5

false atmosphere, no more shifting pixelations to give the impression of clouds, no more carefully calibrated preprogrammed sunrises and sunsets, no more blue. Which is not to suggest that there wasn’t light, but that light was extremely unearthlike: on a bright day, the colonists looked up into space. The juxtaposition of utter darkness with bright light made some people dizzy, although whether this was physical or psychological was up for debate. More seriously, the failure of the dome lighting removed the illusion of the twenty-four-hour day. Now the sun rose rapidly and spent two weeks crossing the sky, after which there were two straight weeks of night.

The cost of repair was deemed prohibitive. There was a degree of adaptation—bedroom windows were outfitted with shutters, so people could sleep during the nights when the sun was out, and street lighting was improved for the days without sunlight— but property values declined, and most people who could afford it moved to Colony One or the recently completed Colony Three.

“Colony Two” drifted out of common parlance; everyone called it the Night City. It was the place where the sky was always black.

I grew up in the Night City. My walk to school took me past the childhood home of Olive Llewellyn, an author who’d walked those same streets two hundred years ago, not too far out from the moon’s first settlers. It was a little house on a treelined street, and I could tell that it had been pretty once, but the neighborhood had gone downhill since Olive Llewellyn had been a child there. The house was a wreck now, half the windows covered up and graffiti everywhere, but the plaque by the front

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door remained. I paid the house no attention, until my mother told me she’d named me after a peripheral character in Marienbad, Llewellyn’s most famous book. I didn’t read the book—I didn’t like books—but my sister Zoey did and reported back: the Gaspery-Jacques in the book wasn’t anything like me.

I decided not to ask her what she meant. I was eleven when she read it, which would have made her thirteen or fourteen. By then she was already a serious, driven kind of person who was obviously going to excel at everything she attempted, whereas by eleven I already had the first suspicions that I might not be exactly the kind of person I wanted to be, and it would be awful if she were to tell me that the other Gaspery-Jacques were, say, a strikingly handsome and generally impressive person who was extremely focused on his schoolwork and never committed petty theft. But nonetheless I began to secretly regard Olive Llewellyn’s childhood home with a degree of respect. I felt connected to it.

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An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Anne Michalski Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Names: Michalski, Elizabeth Ann, author.

Title: Darling girl: a novel of Peter Pan / Elizabeth Ann Michalski.

Description: New York : Dutton, [2022] | Identifiers: LCCN 2021011885 (print) | LCCN 2021011886 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593185636 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593185643 (ebook) Classification: LCC PS3613.I3447 D37 2022 (print) | LCC PS3613.I3447 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6— dc23 LC record available at https:// lccn.loc.gov/2021011885 LC ebook record available at https:// lccn.loc.gov/2021011886 Printed in the United States of America ScoutAutomatedPrintCode Book design by Nancy Resnick This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

I

n a very tall tree sits a girl. The tree is perhaps fifty feet high, and the girl rests with her back nestled against its trunk. If a person passed beneath the tree and looked up, it is unlikely they would see her.

The color of her dress blends perfectly with the leaves around her. Her face is pale, as if the sun has not touched it in days.

The girl swipes a hand across her nose. A bee is buzzing somewhere.

She has been in this tree for a long time, much longer than anyone would believe possible. Her arms and legs are stiff, and there are bruises on them; she can tell by the way they hurt. A tear slips from her right eye and she catches at a fragment of memory. Once, she sat in a tree with someone whose eyes were the exact shade of the sky. She wore a blue dress, one that brought out the color in her own eyes. A blue silk ribbon tied back her hair. When the boy told her she could fly, she laughed.

“Of course you can, silly,” he had said. “How do you think we got up here in the first place?”

She remembers the crack of the branch when she stood, the way the cool air spun up through her dress, rushed across her skin. It had felt so good. She wants to feel that way again, not like the broken thing she is now. She remembers the boy’s instructions. He’d recited them from

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Li z Mich a lsk i the storybook, the one she’d been reading to him. The one their mother didn’t like.

“Don’t look down,” he’d said. “And don’t doubt. The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.”

A second voice had echoed him, tiny and excited, like the tinkling of golden bells.

Now she hears those bells again. She stands up on the branch, edges away from the trunk while keeping one hand on it. Bounces gently on her toes, like a diver at the edge of the board. Now that it’s come to the moment, she’s afraid. But if she stays much longer, she’ll never get down from the tree. She won’t be able to. She may even become a part of it.

In a stone house in the English countryside far below, there is another girl, mirror image to the first. This one also wears green, but it is the green of a hospital gown. In her room, machines beep and chime, make quiet hissing sounds. A nurse sits in the kitchen, drinking tea and listening to classical music. A gardener mows the lawn, and the buzzing noise incorporates itself into the girl’s muzzy, drug-soaked dreaming.

She is waiting for something deep inside of her, whether she is aware of it or not.

In the tree far above, the girl perches on her branch, takes a deep breath, lets the wind wash over her. She closes her eyes and jumps.

The girl in the house opens her eyes.

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Chapter One

T

he Darlings age well. Everyone says so, and they say it especially about Holly Darling. They whisper it when they pass her in the halls at work; they murmur it when they see her at galas and fundraisers.

Everyone wants to know her secret. Everyone wants to be photographed with her. But Holly’s almost never in the glossies if she can help it, and she turns down most of the invitations she receives. Those people didn’t know her before; they’d never understand who she really is now.

So when people ask, Holly simply tells them it’s in her genes. And it’s true. Her grandmother Wendy looked fabulous until the day she died, and Holly’s mother, Jane, could pass for someone decades younger.

On her trips to London, Holly is always surprised to see how little her mother has changed. A few more lines around her eyes, maybe, another streak of silver in her hair, but overall, the same cool, beautiful Jane.

Of course, Holly’s also in the business of looking good. Thousands of women all over the world rely on Darling skin cream. At her shiny headquarters on Fifth Avenue, marketing routinely suggests that she model for the line. What better face for the brand than her own wrinklefree one? With her sleek blonde hair and Pilates-honed frame, Holly embodies what most of her customers want to be. Plus, there’s her famous name, an added allure. But Holly always refuses. She doesn’t want the extra publicity.

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Li z Mich a lsk i Or the scrutiny that comes with it. It’s bad enough that she’s done what she swore she’d never do when she was a child—use the Darling name to get ahead. She hadn’t made the choice lightly, but the cosmetics industry is cutthroat, and Holly’s not stupid enough to waste such a big advantage. But she draws the line at putting herself out there.

This morning, as she’s walking down the hallway to the conference room, a handful of people poke their heads out of cubicles and offices to wish her good luck. Holly nods and smiles, but her focus is on the meeting ahead.

When she reaches the conference room, she takes a deep breath to gather herself, then pushes open the door. A half dozen faces turn to look at her.

“Are we set to go?” she asks, crossing the room to her seat at the head of the table. There’s the faintest hesitation to her steps, as if she’s dragging one leg. It’s the remnant of a car accident she suffered in her twenties, back when she was young and foolish and believed love was enough to protect those she cared about. A naivete that cost her one child and almost another, not to mention a husband. When she’s cold, or tired, or stressed like today, the limp is more pronounced.

“Marketing dropped off the mock-ups,” Barry says, taking her abruptness in stride. Barry’s been with Holly since the beginning. Today he’s wearing his lucky blue suit, a pink silk handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. On anyone else, it might have been overkill. On Barry, polished to such an extreme that even his bald head shines, it looks good.

The team talks strategy for a few moments. They’ve done one or two of these deals before, where the Darling name is loaned out for a special product launch— though never one of this magnitude. Today they’ll combine their brand with the country’s leading cosmetics company to create a highlighter called Pixie Dust. The conference phone rings, and Barry answers it.

“Send them up,” he says. Then, to Holly, “They’re here.”

A low buzz fills the room as the four staffers turn to one another, 4 80

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Dar ling Gir l aligning marketing materials that are already perfectly straightened, doing a last-minute check on water glasses and chairs. Only Barry seems relaxed. His eyes roam the stark white conference room, the sole hint of color coming from the bouquets of pink peonies dusted with golden glitter that are arranged in the center of the table. He grins widely, teeth gleaming.

“We’re ready for this,” he says. “We’ve got this, people.”

A few minutes later Holly, Barry, and the rest of the team stand as Holly’s assistant ushers in a woman and two men. The woman reaches out to shake Barry’s hand, then leans in to hug Holly, who proffers her own hand instead.

“Lauren,” Holly says smoothly, covering any awkwardness. “So nice to see you again.”

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Holly. You look amazing, as always.

How’s Jack?”

“He’s great, thanks. Still living for lacrosse. His sophomore year is flying by.”

“He must be itching to get his driver’s license,” Lauren Lander says.

“I’m telling you, hold him off as long as you can. Once they start driving, you lose all control. Teenagers behind the wheel are an accident waiting to happen.”

“I can imagine,” Holly says with a tight smile. She can tell when realization hits Lauren; she glances involuntarily at Holly’s leg, a horrified expression crossing her face.

“And your two?” Barry says, stepping in to do damage control before Lauren can make it worse. “I heard your son made the golf team at Eckerd. You must be so proud.”

“We wish he was closer, but at least we have a warm place to visit,” Lauren says, clearly grateful for the change in topic. “Ashley’s already planning on heading there for spring break.”

She turns to Holly. “We should introduce Jack and Ashley sometime. It would be so thrilling for her to meet a Darling.”

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Li z Mich a lsk i “That would be great,” Holly says. Her eyes meet Barry’s.

“She’d be so excited,” Lauren continues, letting out a very unprofessional giggle. “She’s fascinated by your family. Peter Pan was her hero for years. Though it’s always a shame when you realize your literary crushes aren’t real, isn’t it?”

Holly’s lips thin. “Tragic.”

There’s no chance in hell she’ll make that introduction. She’s worked too hard, for too long, to keep Jack safe to blithely put him in the path of a party girl like Lauren’s daughter.

Holly moves to the table and Lauren follows, still chatting. A folder filled with mock-ups of Pixie Dust ad campaigns rests at each place.

Each folder is topped by a tiny pink glass bottle of the powder that glitters in the light. One bottle is slightly off-center, and Holly frowns until the marketing director hurriedly adjusts it.

“Adorable!” Lauren says. “This is going to fly off the shelves.”

Barry gives Holly a triumphant look, but she’s not ready to celebrate quite yet. She taps a finger against her folder, and Barry gets the hint.

“Let’s take a look at the terms,” he says, opening his up.

“Oh, but before we get into that, I want to see,” says Lauren. She cracks open the glass bottle, sniffs. “Smells like . . . lemon. No, sarsaparilla. No, that’s not it. But it’s . . . something effervescent. Am I right?”

Holly’s staff freezes. Holly’s known for her strict adherence to the agenda, and she’s been known to explode when someone goes off schedule. Even Barry’s giving her the side-eye, but Holly surprises them all.

“Think of it as . . . the scent of springtime,” she says, shrugging almost imperceptibly toward Barry. For the amount of money on the line, she can afford to play nice.

“I like that. How does it work?” Lauren asks, tapping a tiny bit into her hand.

Holly nods at the marketing director, who cues the video. A wide shot pans to a beautiful young girl by the banks of a frozen lake. Ice covers the ground. A glass bottle floats through the night sky. The girl 6 82

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Dar ling Gir l catches the bottle, opens it, and blows the contents into the air. As the golden powder swirls above her, her face brightens, as if lit from within by stars. She turns to the camera, radiant.

“All you need is faith, trust, and a little Pixie Dust,” a man’s voice intones. The screen fades to black.

“Oooh,” Lauren breathes. She tilts her head up, blows the dust in her palm into the air, closes her eyes as it settles on her face. “It feels . . . tingly.” She turns to the man next to her. “How does it look?”

The man inspects her face as if he’s looking at a spreadsheet. The powder has disappeared, but there’s a slight sheen to Lauren’s skin, a radiance that wasn’t there before. Her skin looks taut and even. “It’s subtle, but there’s a definite glow. It’s quite pretty. More to the point, it looks completely natural. Honestly, it’s like nothing we’ve seen out there.”

“Exactly.” Barry grins. “And you won’t find anything else like it, either.”

“How does it work?”

“We use a proprietary blend of light-refracting pigments, combined with the best masking and camouflage agents in existence.”

“And it’s nontoxic?”

“Of course,” Barry says. “We at Darling Skin Care have been the leaders in that area for quite some time.”

He points to the deputy marketing director, who produces a hand mirror emblazoned with a large D. Barry passes the mirror to Lauren, who stares into it.

“Wow,” she says. “Your guys are really, really good.”

“Thank you,” says Holly. She’s particularly practiced at keeping the edge from her voice on this one, but Lauren must catch a hint, because she stops looking in the mirror and glances over.

“Sorry,” she says, and has the grace to blush. “It’s hard to remember you’re a scientist on top of everything else.”

“It’s quite all right,” Holly says, although it’s not. This is one of the reasons she decided early on to partner with Barry—strictly in the business sense, after those first few nights—since even in this day and age 7

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83

Li z Mich a lsk i there are some people who can’t seem to believe that a woman who looks like she does could also be a real, hands-on scientist. But Pixie Dust is every bit Holly’s baby, in more ways than one.

“Well,” says Barry. “If you’ll look in the folders in front of you, you’ll find a standard—” There’s a knock on the door, and Holly’s assistant pokes her head in.

“Dr. Darling, I am so sorry to interrupt, but I need you for a minute.”

Holly makes an effort not to scowl. She has a habit of running through assistants, and this one is so new Holly’s struggling to remember her name. “Can it wait?”

The assistant shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Excuse me a moment, everyone,” Holly says. “I’ll be right back.” She pushes her chair out, stalks around the table. She runs through the list of what it could possibly be, stops short when she gets to the most likely.

Jack. There’s one thing her assistant would interrupt her for right now, and that’s her son. His is the only call she’ll take no matter what she’s doing. But he knows what a big day today is for the company. He wouldn’t bother her unless it was an emergency. Her pulse pounds in her ears, and she hurries outside.

“What is it?” she demands. Her voice is brusquer than she’d intended, and the girl flinches.

“I’m sorry, but the caller said it was urgent.”

Barry has left the conference room too and come up behind her. His face is so worried it’s clear he’s had the same thought as Holly.

“Is Jack okay?” he asks, putting a hand on Holly’s arm.

“It’s not Jack,” the girl says, and relief rushes through Holly. She inhales deeply, aware for the first time that she’d been holding her breath.

“Then why the hell did you interrupt us?” says Barry. “If it’s not about Jack, whatever it is can wait.”

“It’s not Jack,” the girl repeats. “It’s about your daughter.”

“Her daughter? Holly doesn’t have a daughter. She has Jack. Everybody knows that,” Barry says. He glares at the girl, who looks as if she’d 8 84

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Dar ling Gir l like nothing better than to flee. “Come on, Holly. We need to get back in there.”

But Holly’s not moving. Her limbs have grown cold. She feels sick and shaky, as if she might faint. Barry takes one look at her and wraps an arm around her for support.

“Holly?” he says. “What is it?”

For once, Holly’s iron self-control deserts her. Because the truth is, she does have a daughter, a secret clutched so tightly to her heart that no one here, not even Barry, knows about her.

“What did they say?” Holly manages to ask.

“Holly?” Barry’s looking at her, his eyebrows raised in disbelief even as he holds her up, but she can’t answer him right now.

The girl shakes her head. “Just that you should call right away. They left the number.”

Holly doesn’t need to look at the slip of paper the girl is holding.

After ten years of calling that number, she knows it by heart.

“Then get them on the phone,” Barry barks. He may not know what’s going on, but the good thing about Barry is he’s always on Holly’s side.

“We’ll take it in there.” He points to an unused office a few doors down from the conference room and guides Holly into it.

Once there, he paces around the small space, his large form making it feel even tinier. “I don’t understand, Holly. How could you not tell me you had a daughter? I mean, Jesus, we’re like family.”

“I’m sorry,” Holly says wearily. She’s been waiting for this call for over a decade, and now that the initial shock has passed, she’s exhausted. She wonders if all her preparation will be enough. But there’s nothing she can do now. She takes out her own phone and tries the number. It clicks straight to voicemail, so she hangs up.

“It’s just . . . I found out I was pregnant after the crash. The pregnancy was a struggle the whole way.” The truth. But not all of it.

“But how could you not tell me? Why haven’t you ever talked about her? For Christ’s sake, what’s her name?”

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85

Li z Mich a lsk i “Eden. Eden Estelle. Her birth was . . . complicated,” Holly says. She hits redial. Still nothing. “And then, a few years after, she had an accident. She and Jack had been playing. They climbed a tree and she fell . . . The doctors didn’t think she would survive. She’s been on life support ever since.” Also true, in its own way.

“Oh, Jesus, Holly,” Barry says again, but his tone has softened. “I wish you would have let me help.”

“I didn’t talk about it because I couldn’t bear to go through it again.”

And that is true, completely. Losing Robert, and Jack’s twin, Isaac, and almost Jack . . . if Eden had died that day, she’s not sure she would have recovered. Even now, with all the years she’s had to prepare, all the time she’s spent already mourning her daughter, there’s a deep well of sadness opening at her core. If she’s not careful, she’ll fall back in. “Losing Eden has never been a matter of if, just when. Being here, at work, helped me forget at least part of the time.”

“What do you mean, losing? Maybe she’s sick. Pneumonia or something. Kids get sick all the time.”

Holly shakes her head. “I have round-the-clock care for her at our old house in Cornwall. I get an email update at the end of every day, and talk to the nurses at least once a week. They wouldn’t call if it was anything but . . . but this.”

She doesn’t say what “this” is, but Barry has always been talented at reading between the lines.

“I’m so sorry. Do you need me to call Jack?”

“He doesn’t know, Barry.”

“Doesn’t know?” His face is puzzled.

“Doesn’t know about Eden. At all. And I want it to stay that way.”

Holly’s firm on this.

Barry stares at her in disbelief, as she’d known he would. “Yeah, but Holly, come on, this is his sister you’re talking about. He has a right to know about his family.”

Barry is knowledgeable about many things— contract law, fine whis10 86

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Dar ling Gir l key, and, back in the day, mutually agreeable sex—but he has no idea what he’s talking about on this particularly complex subject. “Jack doesn’t remember her—he was still so little, and he’s repressed so much from that time. I wanted to shield him. I still want to shield him. He’s been through so much already.”

Barry starts to respond, but the assistant pokes her head around the door, exhales hard. “I’ve got her,” she whispers to Holly. “Please hold for Dr. Darling,” she says, then points with her chin to the phone on the desk next to Holly. “I’ll put her through whenever you’re ready.”

Barry waits, but Holly motions to the door. “Go. You need to get back in there and close the deal.”

He looks at her, uncertain.

“I’m okay, Barry. I promise,” she says. “I’ve been expecting this. The surprise is that she lasted as long as she did. I mourned Eden a long time ago. The call took me off guard, that’s all.”

He hesitates. “If you’re sure . . .”

Holly makes a shooing motion with her free hand. “Go. I’ll try to come back in if I can.”

“All right,” he says dubiously. “You’re the boss.” He squeezes her shoulder before he leaves.

She’s finally alone, and in the few seconds she has, she thinks of Eden as a baby, as the precociously beautiful child she was before the fall. She thinks of the girl who never sat still, instead of the one who has not been able to move for ten years. And then she takes a deep breath, because she knows before she even picks up the phone what the nurse is going to say.

Which is what makes the actual words so astonishing.

“Dr. Darling? I’m so sorry,” the voice on the other end of the line says. It hesitates, then continues. “But your daughter? She has vanished.

We cannot find her anywhere.”

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