PROLOGUE
LUCIA
SEVEN YEARS OLD
The freshly paintedpink and white petals on the Hidden Roses Hotel sign shimmer back at me.
I’m sitting on a chipped brick wall a few feet away from the hotel’s front door, just off to the left of the parking lot, waiting for my mom to finish work.
A bunch of cars are parked perfectly straight between white lines painted on the ground ahead of me. It’s a small space, only thirty spots, and is for employees only. Mom says it’s first come, first serve.
My eyes cut back to the front of the hotel. Every time the revolving doors start to rotate, I sit up a little straighter, a meerkat on alert, hoping it’s her, but it’s not.
Come on, Mom.
I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting, but the sky isn’t as blue as it was when I waved goodbye to Mr. Lenny after I got offthe school bus. It looks a little sadder now, as if someone upset the clouds and, any minute, they’ll start crying.
“Twenty-five!” I yell out to no one as a red car leaves the parking lot. The car-counting game I play with myself usually only gets as high as fifteen before Mom exits and leaves her workday behind her. But today, an additional ten cars have passed by.
I close my eyes and snap my heels together, the same way Dorothy does fromThe Wizard of Oz,but my green shoes aren’t glittery or shiny as they smack against each other. When I open my eyes, I’m still on the wall outside the hotel.
No magical shoes.
I just want to go home and read my new book, but Daddy says I’m not old enough to walk home alone yet.
When another two cars pass, I jump off the wall.
I’ve had enough, or as Ms. Hazel sometimes says when the boys are being chatter boxes even after she’s told them to be quiet: “I’ve reached the end of my feather.”
I grab my backpack from the ground and swing it over my shoulder.
There’s no road or man with a giant lollipop sign to help me cross, so I know to be extra careful. I check for moving cars, exactly how Daddy taught me when we practiced road safety.
Once I’m safely on the other side, I hopscotch up the marble steps that lead to the hotel’s entrance. I press both hands against the gold metal bar of the door—it’s cold and reminds me of a fridge handle—and keep pushing it until it starts to turn. Then I’m inside.
The lobby smells of freshly bloomed flowers. My shoes squeak and scuff against the shiny marble floor as I hurry to where Mom’s office is. I don’t want to be seen. If someone catches me in the hotel, they’ll yell at Mom, and then she’ll giveme that look, the one where her eyebrow gets really pointy and she starts tapping her foot.
That’s how I know she’s not happy.
When she gets told off at work, she calls it a “bad day,” and I really don’t want her to have one of those because that’s when she drinks the brown stuff that smells funny and makes her mood sour.
I jump in the air and let out a quick, “Whoop,” when I find the door with gold glossy letters:CLARISSA ROSE ALVAREZ - HOTEL MANAGER.
I give myself a high five for remembering where it was and enter Mom’s office.
The first thing I notice when I’m inside is the light pink walls. They’re the same shade as cotton candy.
In the middle of the room, there’s a large table, bigger than the one in our kitchen. Its smooth surface mirrors the tiles beneath my feet, gold squiggly lines over the top. It’s so clean, I can see my shadow.
Six pastel chairs are tucked under it. They look plush and bouncy like my bed. On one of the chairs, there’s a black jacket folded over the top. It looks similar to the one Daddy wears to work.
Did Daddy come to visit Mom?
They must be behind the sliding doors that separate this room from the private area of her office—this section used mostly for meetings. I turn toward them but stop when a weird sound comes from behind it. It’s throaty and long, and suddenly, my tummy resembles jelly, bouncing uncomfortably instead of twisting.
“More,” my mom says. “Please… I need more,” she says again, breath quivering as though she’s halfway through her treadmill walk.
There’s a gap just big enough in the sliding door for me to slip through, which is exactly what I do. Mom’s pointy-toed heels and work papers are scattered on the floor. Confusion swirls in my stomach.
