Chapter 1
ELOWYN
Ten years later—present day
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The halls smell faintly of antiseptic, grief, and hope woven together.
But it’s not my place to think about grief or hope. I’m not here for that.
My job, same as it’s been for the past six months, is cleaning this hospital in downtown Manhattan. It’s where I spend most of my time, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, stretching myself thin just to keep what’s left of my family afloat.
Which, at this point, is just Barclay.
I frown at myself for sounding ungrateful. I’m proud of my job, of the paycheck from the cleaning company, small as it is.
It’s honest work.
Better than selling myself to a man I could never love, the way Barclay insists every other week. According to him, it doesn’t matter that no one in town speaks to us anymore. Some wealthy sucker would marry me if I’d just stop being such a stuck-up bitch.
Anyway. As much as I love what I do for a living, the hours I stay on my feet are grueling. Some days, the fatigue makes me fantasize about a desk job.
The thought of sitting for longer than a few minutes feels holy. Sadly, it’s entirely out of reach. Working in a corporate office isn’t an option; with only a high school diploma, nothing pays as much as cleaning.
As if on cue, exhaustion pricks behind my eyes. My arms ache, my shoulders burn. The last minutes of my twelve-hour shifts always hit the hardest.
Just the last minutes?
Ugh. That inner voice of mine, I hate it.
There’s no room for self-pity in my life when Barclay needs me to take care of him. His severe shoulder injury has left him with nerve damage so extensive that he struggles to get out of bed.
Most of the time, I feel bad for him. But in my darkest hours, like now, I also remember he’s the one who’s brought it on himself.
According to police reports, Barclay lost it one afternoon on the golf course he frequents and went after fellow golfer Patrick Trainor. His excuse? He didn’t like the guy’s face.
Barclay’s irrational dislike turned into a nightmare when he lifted his arm to throw one last punch at Patrick, brass knuckles glinting.
A man on a nearby hole panicked and warned my brother three times. When Barclay wouldn’t listen, he fired his weapon.
One bullet was all it took. It tore through Barclay’s shoulder, nicking nerves and vessels that haven’t fully recovered.
Thankfully, the criminal case never made it to court. The lawyer Barclay hired cost us a fortune, but at least he made everything go away.
Well, almost everything.
Since Patrick didn’t feel like justice was served, he took Barclay to civil court and won. Five million in damages, plus an avalanche of legal fees and Barclay’s hospital bills, and…poof.
We have nothing. Can’t even afford his pain meds or physical therapy.
Our family business could’ve been our lifeline, but like our savings, it’s gone too.
Turns out, gambling and paying off bar fights aren’t just reckless, they’re destructive.
I’d been trying to get Barclay to stop. Truly. He just wouldn’t listen. Years before his last fight, he—slowly but surely—had drained almost every asset, every cent, every safety net we had.
All this time, I didn’t lose faith. As long as he could stand upright and talk numbers, there was still hope for us.
That hope, and later the fact that I owed him my life, were the only reasons I signed off on selling one property after another.
I trusted Barclay to make the right decisions. Or maybe I wanted to believe he would.
Even when all that was left was roughly six million dollars between the two of us, I hoped for the best. It wasn’t a lot in terms of real estate in New York. Just enough for the bank to consider giving us a loan to revive our business.
Then his last, brutal fight happened. From there, well…
I sigh, knowing darn well that the blame for my current situation isn’t Barclay’s alone. I’m exhausted, cornered, stretched thin because of the choices I made.
Years ago, back when we could afford it, I mentioned college. Barclay laughed. Said all I’d ever be good for was being a rich man’s wife.
Volunteering at the dog shelter? Fine. College? Not a chance.
Our parents were dying, and he was my big brother. Again, I trusted him. Sure, he was mean. Misogynistic. Wrong. Yet I was foolish enough to listen.
So while Barclay went off to business school, I let myself believe my place was here, at home, learning to be the polished society woman he deemed me to be.
A single woman, much to Barclay’s irritation.
Though Duncan left after he kissed me at sixteen, I’ll never replace him.
Secretly, I figure that if Barclay is within his rights to blow through our savings, I’m allowed this one thing for myself.
The memory of Duncan’s kiss. Of his eyes.
His presence.
Every single good thing about him, I’ve been clinging to it.
Even when the sad, humiliating memories creep in.
Like what kissing me had done to him. After Duncan left, Barclay explained it had disgusted his friend badly. That he’d realized it’d been fucked up to get involved with his best friend’s sister.
That he couldn’t look either of us in the eye and had to leave town.
The truth was devastating.
The fact that he was gone for good was even worse.
Because he didn’t just leave. No one was looking for him either.
When my parents and the authorities asked where he’d gone, Barclay told them Duncan had run off on his own. The grief over his parents had become too much. He couldn’t stay in New York and had relocated to another state. Which one? Barclay didn’t know.
Despite being the worst liar, I stuck to Barclay’s version. According to him, that had been Duncan’s last request before he disappeared. I respected Duncan’s decision out of guilt, even as I ached to contact him.
And so, nearly eighteen, distraught, and with the bank providing footage of him withdrawing funds the morning after our kiss, Duncan was never declared missing.
Everyone forgot about him eventually.
Everyone except me.
It still hurts, having to hold back. Not to reach out to him.
I have to, for him. That’s why I never texted him, fearing I’d make things worse by reminding him of a kiss that turned his stomach.
Not like I’m happy about it.
Losing him has dragged me into a dark, empty hole where pain and guilt were my only companions.
It started when I stopped picking up my friends’ calls. Later, I barely made it through high school. Hardly spoke to my parents or mourned them when they passed away, one after another.
Nothing’s changed since. Stuck in Cobbledale, lonely and aching for someone I’m never going to have, I’ve been drowning in shame and longing.
All because I can’t stop thinking about Duncan.
“Get over yourself, Elowyn.” I roll my shoulders back and continue down the hall.
Just then, a groan rises from one of the patient rooms. The raw and miserable sound knocks some sense into me.
Other people are fighting battles far heavier than a bruised heart.
That truth lands hard enough to briefly shake me free of self-pity.
It doesn’t last.
Because my shift ends in five minutes.
The part I hate most comes next. Securing the pain meds Barclay can’t pay for.
As the med-room comes into view, my pace falters. I glance up at the security camera and offer a small, forced smile for Sharona, the guard posted tonight. My quiet accomplice.
For a third of whatever I slip out with, she wipes the right minutes from the CCTV.
Guilt eats me alive, but so does the fear of the watchers on shift. They’re nothing like Sharona.
Months ago, one look at the two men stationed here told me how pointless it would be to ask for a favor or even try to bribe them with my stash. They make a sport out of glaring at me and the rest of the cleaning crew, as if they’re better than us.
They aren’t. They’re just people, and people are inherently flawed.
Jeremiah, the one on duty tonight, has a weakness: he sleeps around with a few doctors, depending on the day. I don’t judge him. Not at all. In fact, I’m grateful for it, since most nights, around the time I clock out, he slips off to one supply closet or another to get his fill.
From where I’m standing, today doesn’t seem all that different.
I crouch near the window and pretend to scrub a stubborn spot on the wall, sneaking a quick look through the glass, then scanning the hall.
All clear.
With a relieved sigh, I shove the damp rag into one of the pockets of my gray cleaning-company uniform. My hand drifts to the tight bun, patting my hair nervously.
I really hate stealing.
I hate Barclay’s pain even more.
Deep breath.
Go.
I’m gripping the bobby pins I keep in my uniform, about to take them out so I can break in there, when I freeze.
Someone’s cologne, faint and out of place, rides the air for half a second, then it’s gone. Panic sends me on high alert. I look around, making sure I’m alone.
I am. Of course I am. I double and triple-checked, didn’t I?
“You did,” I murmur and pick the lock to the room first, then the cabinet.
After tucking an orange bottle into the pocket of my uniform skirt, I tiptoe my way out of the med room. Heading down the back hallway toward the staff lockers and time clock, I punch my card, get my coat and bag from my locker, and head to the security room.
“Thanks, E.” Sharona pockets the pills I pass on to her before returning to FaceTime with her husband. “Night.”
“Goodnight,” I say to both of them, and leave.
The crisp fall night air welcomes me outside the sliding doors before the breeze whips at me, a lock of my hair breaking free from my neat bun.
I ignore it, hug my overcoat close, bow my head, and rush to the train station. The entire walk, I’m praying I won’t get jumped at this late hour. So far, nothing’s happened, but you never know. Anything’s possible when it’s dark, and the streets of Manhattan are nearly empty.
If not for our ruined reputation, I would’ve never worked here. I would’ve stayed closer to home because Cobbledale isn’t just safer, it’s gorgeous.
As a kid, I’d hang out with my friends, appreciating the late-summer sunsets, the spring blossoms. The golden and red leaves of fall and the snow during the winter, I enjoyed them too, whether it was three in the afternoon or close to midnight.
Now, I can’t. Thanks to—
Don’t you dare blame your brother for it. It was your job to look after him, the ghost of my mom’s voice reproaches.
Tears well in my eyes. I blink them away and quicken my pace.
Thankfully, I make it to the train unscathed.
After I take my seat, I try to focus on the hands in my lap and not let guilt or regret pull me under. But with the echo of the promises I made to Mom and the constant longing for something that’ll never happen, I fail.
My face crumples.
If only Duncan had stuck around…
My shoulders sag. Yeah, I don’t doubt that Duncan wouldn’t have let Barclay’s spiral get that far. He would’ve been there to get my brother out of trouble, like he had so many times.
And I’d thank him for it, on my knees, doing things I never did but always fantasized about. As his wife.
The dirty images silence the pain, sending familiar heat down my stomach and between my legs. Just as fast, shame strikes me like a slap across the face.
He never wanted me.
Worse still, it’s my fault he isn’t here.
I can’t hate him, though.
First, because my heart won’t let me.
Second, because I gave him my word.
“Promise me you’ll remember the good things about me.”
I want him back. So much.
I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.
The words play on repeat in my head for the rest of the ride. Their whispers linger, even as I walk out into the night air, my sneakers silent with each step I take toward home, the same route as always.
Except tonight isn’t like any other night. Something isn’t right.
The hair at the back of my neck stands up. The prickling sensation of being watched, the scent from the hospital, they’re back.
What’s going on?
Nothing. You’re imagining this.
That’s right. I’m being paranoid. I laugh at myself, sounding as tired as I feel, and keep walking.
By the time I make it to our home, my swollen feet ache. My muscles scream for relief as I reach for the keys in my messenger bag.
I gaze up at my dark room, fantasizing about a shower. About my bed.
But when I slip my key into the lock, I find out the night has other plans for me.
“What’s this?” My palm opens, leaving the key fixed in place.
The streetlight casts just enough light for me to make out an envelope wedged between the rusty bars of the wrought-iron gate.
My heart stutters. Stops.
Right before it races ahead at an impossible speed.
It punches my chest while sweat beads on my forehead. While my hands tremble.
“No.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Please, don’t let it be an eviction notice.”
We’re months behind on our semiannual property taxes, but I had to prioritize the utilities. Our food.
Endless nights, I’ve lost sleep over it, bracing for a moment like this to arrive.
Looks like the time has come.
My hand trembles as I pluck the envelope from the gate.
The moment my fingers brush the thick, expensive paper, relief surges through me.
This can’t be how they send eviction notices. No government letter ever came dressed like this.
If anything, it feels more like one of the gala invitations my parents used to receive, back when we still belonged to that world.
Forgetting something? You’re not a part of that world anymore. Meaning someone either sent this to mock you, or…
“To hell with this.” With this day, this life, this envelope, and whoever sent it.
Furious energy surges through me, jolting me awake as I rip the damn thing open…
And yank out the card from inside.