“Not so fast.”
He returned to his seat.
“Since you’re asking for concessions,” she said, “it’s only fair for me to ask you for something.”
“I’m listening.”
“Furry Tails really does need a revamped website. So if you’re going to stay on, I’d ask that you complete the site, regardless of how quickly we complete the hunt.”
“I’ll finish your website.”
No one had ever mistaken her for a hard-nosed capitalist, and talking about finances made her itchy. That said, she was a businesswoman and transparency was one of her highest ideals. “Also, Furry Tails can afford to pay your salary, but I didn’t budget bodyguard payroll into my monthly personal expenses.”
His hazel eyes could cut diamonds. “I don’t want you to pay me anything extra.”
“Okay then. You and me. Treasure hunt partners?” This really was the most unlikely pairing ever.
“Partners,” he agreed.
CHAPTER TWO
Luke’s life fell into four categories.
Category One: Life before Ethan died.
Category Two: Life after Ethan died.
Category Three: Life in prison.
Category Four: This new life on the outside.
He punched off his alarm on Friday morning and cracked open his eyes. Five a.m. Still black outside.
Many of the details of his four selves were different.
For example, before Ethan died, Luke would pull a shade over his window every night and sleep in total darkness. After Ethan died, total darkness had no longer been his friend. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all unless his closet light was on and the closet door wide open. Even so, sleep became a battle he never won. In prison, lighting choices hadn’t been up to him. When the lights went out, they went out. But never to total darkness. Since he’d been released on parole, he’d been sleeping with light filtering in from the bathroom. He also kept one curtain pushed to the side and the window behind it cracked open a few inches, regardless of the weather.
No one knew when an earthquake might strike. If one struck, you didn’t want it to trap you.
He shoved the covers away and sat on the edge of the mattress. Cold air snaked over him.
For years he’d been looking forward to regaining control over his life. Then he’d gotten out of prison and realized he no longer knew how to choose among a wide range of options or how to fill a day.
It had taken him hours to make his first trip through a grocery store. He’d stared at the huge number of soap choices for ten minutes. Then stared at the cereal choices. Then the apple choices and the yogurt choices—overwhelmed.
Finally, he’d returned home and unpacked his groceries. But then he’d had no idea how to spend the rest of his hours. Not that day or the days that followed. For long periods of time, he’d forgotten to eat.
In prison, his choices had been minimal, his schedule regulated. The sudden lack of a schedule had, to his disgust, caused him stress. He’d felt like a boat carried by the tide because its line to the dock had been cut.
Out of necessity, for the past two months since his release, he’d gone back to following the structure he’d followed on the inside. He woke at five. Ate at six. Exercised. Started work at eight. Lunch at eleven. Back to work until three. From three to five, he focused on projects. He educated himself on all the cultural advances he’d missed—the rise of social media and the polarization of Americans was hard to believe. He did maintenance on his truck, attended meetings with his parole officer or financial planner. He purchased, then linked together a desktop computer, secondary laptop, and smartphone. He installed the best Wi-Fi and TV package available. At five, he ate dinner. Followed by free time on the computer, watching TV, or reading. Bed before eleven.
For more than eight weeks now, he’d been living in a rented apartment on the top floor of one of Misty River’s industrial buildings. And still, every morning, he was struck by the amount of space surrounding him. The square feet of flooring and the cubic feet of air felt enormous. The windows alone—rectangular and divided into square panes—were ten feet tall.
Wearing black flannel pajama pants, he padded across his bedroom and pulled on a zip-up hoodie. When he reached his kitchen, he stared dully at the coffee maker while shoveling tablespoons of ground coffee into the filter. He’d never been a morning person—that detail had remained true through all four of his selves.
The first time his landlady had shown him this apartment, the bones of the one-bedroom, one-bathroom space with its large living area had been hiding beneath ancient carpet, shredded paint, and decaying wood. He’d asked her if he could renovate the place if he did so on his own dime. Since the apartment was already in the worst possible condition and there wasn’t anything he could have done to ruin it further, she’d given him permission.
After moving in, he’d dedicated all his daily “work” hours to construction. Drawing on the money he’d invested before entering prison and the experience he’d gained working construction in high school, he’d ripped up the carpet and refinished the hardwood floors. He’d smoothed the surface of the walls and ceiling and repainted them off-white. Whenever he’d been unsure about how to do something, he watched how-to videos online or checked out books from the library. In the end, he’d gutted the kitchen and bathroom, keeping nothing but the sinks and tub. He’d installed new unfinished cabinetry and painted it dark gray. After tossing the old countertops in the dumpster, he’d taught himself how to pour concrete counters. He’d installed new appliances and fixtures.
