Outside the window, Copper Ridge spreads across the valley in the fading light. Mountains rise like sentinels. The sky burns orange and pink in ways Seattle's marine layer never allowed. Everything quiet and still and nothing like the chaos currently detonating my carefully planned new beginning.
Somewhere in this town, a stranger is moving into my house. Tonight. With legal protection I can't fight and a lease I never authorized.
The mountains glow orange through the window. Perfect. Beautiful. Completely indifferent to the disaster unfolding in my kitchen.
My jaw aches from clenching. I force it to relax.
Fresh start. Right.
Chapter 2
Gemma
The good news is that my apartment has water.
The bad news is that all of it is currently on the floor.
The cold soaks through my mismatched footwear—one duck-covered rain boot keeping my left foot marginally dry, one purple fuzzy slipper on my right that's now achieved the structural integrity of wet bread. Water laps at my ankles. The apartment smells like mildew and defeat.
The water keeps coming, a steady stream from somewhere behind my bathroom wall that sounds like someone's running a faucet full-blast inside the drywall.
"This is fine," I say to absolutely no one, standing ankle-deep in what used to be my living room at three in the afternoon.
This is not fine.
My back aches from the emergency shift I just finished. My uniform is still damp with someone else's blood from the car accident on Route 10. Now I'm standing in my own personal disaster, and the laugh that bubbles up tastes hysterical.
I wade toward the bathroom, the slipper making obscene squelching noises with each step. The property manager's number goes straight to voicemail—a recording that stillmentions Y2K preparedness. I've called three times. On the fourth attempt, I get creative.
"Hi, Jerry, it's Gemma Lockhart again. Still flooding. Now 3 PM. Still very much underwater in unit 2B. I'm starting to think you're avoiding me, which feels personal since we've never actually met. Anyway, guess I live in a pond now. If you need me, I'll be building a dam out of towels and a boat to get around in."
I hang up and survey the damage. I hang up and survey the damage. My medical textbooks bob past like very expensive boats. One vintage band poster does a slow rotation, the corner dragging through water. My houseplant—Kevin the fern—floats in his pot near the kitchen counter, listing to one side like a shipwreck survivor. My throat tightens. Everything I own fits in this 600-square-foot box, and half of it's drowning..
"Sorry, Kevin," I tell the plant. Kevin doesn't respond, probably because he's a fern and also possibly drowning.
My phone buzzes. Tasha from the station.
Tasha: You good?
I snap a photo of my flooded living room, complete with duck boot and disaster slipper, and send it.
Three dots appear. Then:
Tasha: Holy shit. You okay?
Me: Define okay. If okay means I'm considering whether my renter's insurance covers emotional distress, then yes.
I type back.
Tasha: Get out of there. You can crash at my place.
The offer is tempting, but Tasha has three kids under ten and a husband who works nights. The last thing she needs is me taking up valuable couch real estate when she's running on four hours of sleep and pure spite.
Me: Thanks, but I'm good. Already lined up a new place.
Tasha: The rental listing I sent you? You got it?
Me: Paid the deposit yesterday. Moving in tonight, apparently.
