CHAPTER 1
DAN
Ray-Ban aviators to shield my eyes from the summer sun: $244
iPhone…fuck, I don’t know what number they’re on—whatever the newest one is: $1568
BMW M850, carbon black with a merino leather interior, purring to life like a nepo baby’s kitten: $115,855
Balance in my checking account: $0
Okay, that’s not exactly true—it’s actually $436.29, and yes, I know down to the penny at all times—but after what my bank account used to look like, it certainly feels like zero. And without a real job or the ability to get one, that number just keeps ticking closer and closer to nothing.
It’s been two years since my life in New York began to fall apart. And it’s only gotten worse.
I know I should sell the car. I kick my own ass about it every day. Selling the BMW, replacing it with some old Toyota beater, would give me more than enough padding to get through another year, maybe even two. If I’m smart (and I used to be), I could make that money last until this investigation wraps up and I’m (please, god) cleared.
But every time I think about handing over the keys and giving up this last vestige of my old life, the one where I was smart and successful and didn’t have to crash on a series of couches and guest beds in the tiny hometown I couldn’t wait to leave…well, I still have the car, so that should tell you how fucking weak I am.
As I turn onto Main Street, I spot Mrs. Eberle, my old high school English teacher, standing on the corner. She lowers her sunglasses and tracks my car as I make the turn. I instinctively sink lower in my seat, trying to avoid her gaze. I don’t know what’s worse, being investigated by the feds or living under the watchful eyes of your hometown’s biggest gossip.
I think I prefer the feds.
The Bluetooth in my car connects to my iPhone, my Favorites tab lighting up the screen. My dad is at the top, then my siblings, descending in age: Archer, twins Felix and Owen, and then my little sister, Grace. The sixth name on the list is the only one that doesn’t belong to family.
Marcel Lewis.
My attorney.
I tap his name and brace myself.
“Dan the man!” Marcel’s deep voice booms through the high-end sound system. The speakers are so good it sounds like he’s sitting in the passenger seat. “Tell me something good!”
If only…
“Change of address,” I grunt. I press the accelerator at a stop sign, the car leaping forward with the grace of a prima ballerina. The two blocks that make up downtown Cardinal Springs blur by.
“Seriously? I thought you were done with the couch-surfing life. You were staying in that hockey player’s apartment, right?”
Until this morning, that was certainly the case. But then I turned on the kitchen faucet to rinse the glass from my protein shake, and a creak, crash, and gush sounded from the bathroom. It took a shockingly short time for the burst pipe in the ceiling to flood the floor of the tiny bathroom, then start working on the bedroom.
Two hours, a call to the landlord, and an emergency plumber’s visit later, my apartment—well, the apartment I’ve been borrowing from my sister’s recently retired pro hockey player boyfriend, because I can’t afford my own place on no income and a rapidly dwindling bank account—was damp as a bayou and had no running water.
Leaving me once again in need of a place to stay.
It took an hour and the entire McBride family phone tree to find someplace. Archer’s house is being treated for termites, so he’s bunking in our dad’s only guest room, eliminating both of those options. Felix and Owen only have a couch available, which is barely long enough for my six-foot-two frame. And even if I wanted to destroy my back and shoulders by crashing there, Owen and his new girlfriend, Wyatt, are spending as many nights together as possible these days, and the walls in that house are too thin for my taste. Just last week Felix confessed to sleeping with earplugsanda white noise machine, and his bedroom is on the opposite end of the house.
I was seconds from demolishing what remained of my savings and booking a room at the Motel 6 out by the highway when Grace solved my problem.
Or created a whole new one—I’m still not entirely sure. I grit my teeth as I make a left toward the west side of town.
“Plumbing issue,” I explain to my lawyer.
There’s a long silence, and I know Marcel is hoping he’ll goad me into saying more by leaving the space. But he should know better by now. I prefer silence to almost anything else.
“You being charged by the word?” he asks.
If I were, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to afford any more.
