PART 1
CHAPTER
ONE
The train pulledinto the station just as the sun began to set. Orange and pink clouds streaked across a sky pierced raw by the tips of fir trees. Power lines swayed overhead. Wind howled between grimy the buildings nestled along the beachfront, just visible from the tracks. Dark waves lapped at gray sand, crawled over rocks jagged and half-buried. Strands of seaweed were strewn like garlands. To the east, nearly hidden behind verdant hills, the lights of a distant city glittered.
Jack Hazel left the train station carrying a single suitcase, his hat, and a worn leather satchel. Despite meticulously accounting for these items upon boarding, he somehow failed to notice his missing wallet untilafterthe train departed. He’d just spent the last half an hour inside the station filling out a return form that the grumbling, eye-rolling employee had probably tossed into a bin the moment his back was turned. When he asked for directions to his hotel, the employee merely grunted and pointed toward the center of town.
Useless.
Six hours on a train after a long morning of work, and Jack had no idea where his wallet—or his hotel room, for that matter—might be. His return ticket, slated for the day after tomorrow, was neatly folded into a pair of underwear inside his suitcase, where he could be sure it wouldn’t somehow slip away. With itsrusty hinges, flimsy lock and warped edges, the suitcase ought to have been retired years ago.
But Jack couldn’t afford to get rid of it. Nor could he remember to order repairs, a task that he kept in the back of his mind with the best of intentions and somehow continuously lost track of.
Soon, it wouldn’t matter, because he’d be able to replace all the broken-down things he’d collected and clung to in the endless siege of borderline poverty. This new promotion would pay well. He’d show Dan that he could handle the probationary period. Then, for the first time in a long time, things would be alright. No more ill-fitting suits, warped records, books with torn covers, furniture that had been scratched to hell by someone else’s cat (his own Rainy was a calico angel—she’d never destroy an innocent couch like that).
He just had to hold it together a little longer.
Which meant that tomorrow’s audit had to go perfectly.
Jack was no good at counting, but it didn’t matter. He’d go slowly, be careful to write everything down, and use a calculator. It would befine.
Probably.
In Billington there were no hills, only flat plains and roads surrounded by the skeletons of once-green trees. Scorching summers battled frigid winters. Spring and autumn didn’t exist; instead, two miserable seasons traded off inconsistently. It was mind-boggling to suddenly find himself such beautiful wilderness just outside this scenic little town. In the setting sun, the infamous Hidden Hill was shrouded in trees whose leaves were gold as coins, red as foxes.
Jack wandered from the train station to the gas station, a ramshackle affair off the main strip with only three pumps and an attached convenience store. Despite being one of the only buildings with the lights on, it looked more than a little haunted. No cars had stopped for gas. He half-expected a tumbleweed to blow by.
The clerk didn’t even bother to look up when Jack stepped inside.
He’d saved twenty-seven dollars for this trip, intending to treat it as a little vacation. Check into the hotel tonight, have a nice dinner, do the audit tomorrow, and catch a movie afterward.
But it didn’t matter what he’d planned, because his wallet and the twenty-seven dollars were missing, likely stolen or stuck between seats on the train. If he was lucky, the wallet might be returned, but he doubted he’d ever see the cash again.
For the next day and a half, he would have to rely on the three dollars and thirteen cents crammed inside his pocket.
Perhaps the hotel included free breakfast.
The clerk directed him to the Beachfront Hotel with a grunt and a jerk of his thumb. “Two blocks west, right off Main Street. Pink stucco, neon sign. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” said Jack, digging through his pocket. On the counter, he placed a hot dog—tonight’s dinner. Save for a gleaming coat of grease, it was dry as jerky. Beside it, he added a muffin for tomorrow’s lunch and a candy bar for tomorrow evening. All the food he could reasonably afford for the next twenty-four hours.
The clerk handed him a dollar-fifty in change, and Jack saw himself out. Clouds blotted away the magnificent sunset, and with it, the magic.
In brochures, Hidden Cove was a picturesque getaway starring quaint cottages, cobblestone walkways, window boxes overflowing with flowers, and a majestic beach lined with towering pines.
These were nothing but lies. While the town was pleasant in a rundown, tired sort of way, it was nothing like the spectacular advertisements he’d flipped through on the train. Buildings desperately needed repainting, their pastel colors chipped and fading. Chunks of the exteriors were missing. Windows were boarded. The sidewalks were filthy, nearly as black as asphalt. Neon signs blinked helplessly, some of their letters missing. Wildflowers dotted the hills, muted and sparse.
Only a half a mile away, the beach was rocky and grey, its waters angry and murky. Nothing like the places he’d visited as a child, where palm trees accented white, sandy coastlines, and tropical flowers bloomed. Here, everything was green, dewy. Even the cracks the road were filled with verdant, fuzzy moss.
It began to rain.
Jack reached the hotel shivering, his mouth stuffed completely full of hot dog. Neither rain nor saliva could rehydrate it, he noted, disappointed but simultaneously impressed.
The lobby was empty except for a figure slumped behind the front desk, motionless as a corpse. A wrinkled and loose red carpet snagged under the soles of Jack’s shoes. Tables and chairs were jumbled haphazardly alongside the windows—a grim facsimile of cafe-style seating. The striped upholstery boasted unsavory stains, visible from across the room.
A bell tinkled overhead.
