Chapter 2
Erin Pepperell turned the key on her assigned unit in the cluster box and pulled out a weighty stack of envelopes. She scrambled
up the stairway, unlocked the hunter-green apartment door, and once inside, hastily secured it with double bolts and chains.
The apartment was small, the kind people rent only when there’s no other option. The carpet was rough, the plumbing shoddy,
the neighbors unpredictable. But it was hers. And while she lived there, no one screamed at her for not folding the towels
right. No one grabbed her wrist too hard, or slammed doors, or broke plates because dinner wasn’t hot enough.
She tossed her purse and keys onto the small kitchen table and felt a wave of discouragement as she thumbed through the bills.
Grabbing a pencil from a cup on the counter, she jotted down her and her son PJ’s take-home pay on a scrap of paper, carefully
considering their expenses. After she made some calculations, she couldn’t help but feel concerned about having to live on
the number she’d written down.
Erin’s financial worries were replaced with curiosity when she looked at the luxurious embossed envelope, recognizing the elegant handwriting as belonging to Moira Allyson, her boss.
With her head cocked in confusion, she carefully opened it to reveal an invitation to Mo’s fiftieth birthday celebration.
The itinerary on the back of the sophisticated cardstock promised a weekend of delicious cuisine and pampering at Moira’s coastal home.
For a little over a year now, Erin had worked for Mo three days a week, and her responsibilities included cleaning and running
errands. She often found herself with nothing to do and then was tasked with polishing silver that would never be used or
rearranging already immaculate closets. But as Erin scanned the invitation, she thought surely Mo could use help with preparations
for an entire weekend of entertainment, and yet she hadn’t mentioned a thing to her about it.
Erin sank into the shabby love seat in her cluttered living room and kicked off her worn tennis shoes. Her feet, exhausted
from a ten-hour shift at the convenience store, welcomed the relief. As she leaned back, she picked up the phone and dialed
Moira’s number.
Two rings, three, and finally, an answer. Because Mo sounded tired when she breathed, “Hey, Erin,” into the phone, Erin assumed
she must have just finished a cycle workout in her state-of-the-art gym overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway . . . or she
was at the bottom of that evening’s bottle.
“Hey! I didn’t want to wait until I came in to work tomorrow to ask you about the invitation I received in the mail today.”
Erin nervously tucked her short black hair behind her ear, which was lined with studs from the lobe to the cartilage.
“Oh, I’m glad you got it. I had to search for your address on the internet, so I wasn’t sure I sent it to the right place.”
Moira hiccupped, which ruled out the fatigue in her voice being the result of an intense cycling session. “I hope you’ll be
able to make it.”
“I’ll be there if I’m not scheduled to work at Family Pantry. Even if I do have to work at the convenience store, I could clean the house and prepare the food before I—”
Moira interrupted with a laugh. “No, Erin. You’ve misunderstood. I’m not asking you to work at the party that weekend. I’m
asking you to attend as my guest!”
Erin’s eyes widened in puzzlement. Although she and Moira came from vastly different socioeconomic backgrounds, Moira had
always been kind to Erin and never acted like a superior, snobby, or holier-than-thou boss. They often carried on friendly
conversations about their sons and the television shows they both enjoyed. However, Erin didn’t believe their relationship
was close enough for her to be considered a guest at Moira’s birthday party.
“Hello, Erin? Are you still there?” A clinking noise echoed in the background—a familiar sound of glass tapping against Moira’s
wedding ring.
“Y-yes, Moira,” Erin stammered and sat upright on the lumpy love seat. “Thank you for the invitation. I just assumed—”
“I know you’re my employee, Erin, but I think of you as a friend as well. I’m inviting you as that friend. I hope you will
come.”
“It sounds like a wonderful time, Moira. I’ll be there if I can. Thank you again.”
She tossed her phone aside and shook her head at the strange turn of events. The thought of mingling with Savannah’s elite
made her heart race. These were the kinds of people she was used to serving, not socializing with.
A shout echoed from the alley below—it was sharp, angry, and too close.
Then came the crash of a bottle, followed by laughter that was high and unsteady.
Someone was revving an engine, and tires were squealing.
Erin flinched under her thin blanket, her heart pounding before her mind caught up.
She lay stiff in bed, staring at the ceiling, which was cracked in three places.
One arm clutched the blanket up to her collarbone, as if it could shield her from the outside world.
She waited and listened. The sounds outside faded into the usual hum of distant traffic, the occasional dog bark, a siren farther off. Still, her thin body wouldn’t settle.
She glanced at the bedroom door, which was barely open. Down the hall, PJ’s door was shut. The nineteen-year-old had fallen
asleep in the living room earlier while watching football highlights with his headphones on, his large feet hanging off the
end of the thrift store couch before he finally mustered the energy to drag himself to bed. He was a good kid—too good for
the life they had to endure. He was far too aware of things that no boy should ever have to bear. Enrolled in trade school,
he was learning the ins and outs of auto mechanics. He contributed to their income by working at a fast-food restaurant within
walking distance of their apartment. They brought home enough to cover the bills, but nothing was left over.
Erin exhaled, slow and tight. Her body ached, not from anything new, but from everything old. She had scar tissue in her mind,
in her muscles, and in her heart. Peace hadn’t come just because she and PJ left Phillip and their old life behind. The echoes
of that life still whispered to her in the quiet—in the way she flinched at raised voices or the way her hand sometimes hovered
before turning a doorknob, like she still needed permission to move.
Her stomach growled. She had skipped dinner again without realizing it.
More than anything else tonight—more than silence, more than food, more than money, more than safety—she wanted sleep.
Not just rest, but the kind of sleep that didn’t feel like surrender.
She wanted the kind of sleep where she didn’t dream about the past.
She turned onto her side and raised her knees to her chest. The air was cool, and the moonlight cast soft shadows across the
chipped walls. She closed her dark eyes, and her breathing slowed just enough to drift, not into a full, deep sleep, but into
that in-between place where nothing hurt for a little while.
She’d take that for now.