Chapter 1 Piper #2
Alas, the real world comes first, and so does Sonny’s education. It’s my dying wish for this little mister to leave Maple Crossing, succeed in life, and live free from financial burden.
With Sonny occupied, I crash on the couch and slide a laptop into my lap that should be classed as vintage. A few keys on the keyboard are misaligned, and the huge crack that stretches diagonally across the screen makes reading a challenge, but the battery still works perfectly fine, so I cope…
Until I see the whopping prices of dishwashers and stoves these days.
Holy shit. Do they take an arm and leg as credit?
Dread starting to settle back into my stomach, I open up a new tab and go about this in a different way. I bring up the search engine and type in the pathetic question: How to get free money.
Sponsored surveys pop up one after the other as I scroll down the page of search results. No, thank you. I tried those before and earned a grand total of twenty cents from a two-hour-long survey.
Fuck that.
And fuck gambling. The last thing I need is a slot-machine addiction.
My father once developed a gambling “hobby” for a year when I was younger, to apparently “let off some steam.” As if stress from beekeeping was ever a thing.
He lost more money than he gained, and had the bank at his throat for years to come after multiple missed mortgage payments.
I exhale despair out of my system and persist, flicking through pages of search results. Grants. Free demos. Take our ten-minute survey and earn one hundred dollars. My ass…
Hey. I might as well sell some pictures of that online to earn cash for Sonny’s new wardrobe.
The thought has frequented my mind a lot over the past few years, but I’m way too prudish for that.
Taking a pussy pic for one guy is scandalous, never mind having it duplicated all over OnlyFans for creeps to jerk off to.
That life isn’t for me, and with an eight-year-old son under my wing, I wouldn’t wanna risk it and have my actions catch up to him later in his adult life.
Things always have a way of coming back to haunt you…
Like the ad that pops up on the screen of a smiling, happy family. The advertisement is not relevant. The picture is.
Sonny deserves a father, and I unfortunately can’t give him that.
I’m one more click away from canceling my search when I read the slightly illegal words: Insurance Fraud.
I click onto the website out of sheer curiosity, but I quickly get sucked in. Insurance companies pay big when buildings are “accidently” set alight. Better yet, if expensive appliances are burned, they can be replaced, subject to the company’s terms and conditions…
I reach for my reading glasses and bring the laptop closer.
Chat anonymously here with a fire insurance consultant.
Not another anonymous person behind a screen…
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
I glance over at Sonny, sitting quietly at the table completing his math homework, and hate that I can’t gift my little superstar the world.
The T-shirt he’s wearing is holey around the elbows and under the armpits.
He dresses every morning in clothes that are too small for him with no complaints, which makes this situation even more heartbreaking.
My paychecks disappear in an instant, going immediately to outgoing mortgage payments, expensive bills and taxes. I only have a couple hundred bucks left after all of those annoyingly essential payments have been made. And that goes toward groceries.
An alert pings on my computer—a message from the anonymous fire insurance consultant who is “at my service.” After explaining my dilemma in more depth than necessary, he suggests something that sounds way too fucking good to be true.
The stove is old and needs replacing.
I use the stove, and the high heat triggers a fire.
Anonymous Fire Insurance Consultant: It doesn’t need to be a big fire.
You can start the fire yourself, but make sure the stove is damaged enough for authorities—if they start sniffing around—to be unable to investigate the cause.
Always hide your tracks. After reading through all of the fine print, I can see that the company has not advised users to replace their stove after so many years. This will work brilliantly for you.
Faulty stove.
Small fire.
Anonymous Fire Insurance Consultant: With a small child in your home, the company must legally compensate more. Your little boy could’ve lost his life because of their product. You’ll get a good payout. I’m sure of that.
After I thank the shady consultant, he wishes me luck and ends the chat.
There is no record of it, of course—what I’m about to do breaks multiple laws.
But after looking once more in Sonny’s direction, I realize that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
I close the laptop with a huff and pace over to Sonny. In an ideal world, I wouldn’t be plotting to set alight my own kitchen for insurance compensation purposes, but these unrealistic cost-of-living prices are leaving me with no other choice.
I just have to make sure Sonny stays well away in case something doesn’t go according to plan…
But it will be fine, I remind myself. Just a small stove fire. Nothing dramatic.
“Bedtime!” I announce, snapping Sonny out of deep concentration.
“Already?” he replies with a sulking lip. “I only just ate lunch.”
“I know, kiddo. But I have to take care of a few things and you were up bright and early this morning, weren’t you, waiting for Aunt Jessy?”
Sonny’s big brown eyes widen in excitement. “Does that mean I don’t have to finish math practice?”
“Just for the time being, sweet pea. We will tackle those harder questions later together, okay? After your rest.”
After I get my new stove and dishwasher.
And some more money in my accounts.
Sonny hops down from the dining room chair that’s still a little too big for him, and heads into his room, taking the toy plane with him. I stare at the plastic thing, wishing I could fly him out of the county for his ninth birthday.
Perhaps the compensation will give me enough money for us travel a little further next time. Maybe Europe? It blew Sonny’s mind the other day when I told him how far some of his “Borings” can travel.
I tuck him in, blow him a kiss, and make sure his door is safely closed.
Then I walk back into the kitchen, roll up my sleeves, and take out a full bottle of sunflower oil from a pantry that has seen better days. Unscrewing the lid, I take a deep breath and hope that shady insurance guy knows what the fuck he’s talking about.
The dread sitting heavy in my stomach turns to fear as I turn on the gas. Okay. So I’m actually doing this. Right now.
But I remind myself that the world has left me with no other choice. People around here who flash luxury sports cars probably got them same way I’m about to get clothes for my child’s closet—by turning against the law.
Maybe that’s just how people get ahead in life these days.
My father definitely broke a few laws when I was growing up.
I was naive enough at the time to not question his whereabouts when he would disappear for a few days at a time for “work.” His office was the beehive at the other end of the garden. But I was young—what did I know?
I follow the insurance consultant’s instructions and crank the stove up to the highest setting. Shakily, I place a frying pan on top of the ring—nonstick apparently works best for this kind of thing.
The mess on the countertop catches my eye.
Between work and caring for Sonny, I have next to no time to clean this place up.
Mortgage payment letters pile up. Among stacks of documents are old toys that Sonny keeps forgetting about, and an old nail kit I keep forgetting to use.
Manicures are simply not in the budget, so I’ve been meaning to try a more budget-friendly one from home.
Dishes from the lunch Jess made drip-dry on the drainer. She must’ve poured bleach in the sink or something, and wiped down the sides with disinfectant.
I hesitate with the oil when I smell the chemicals, but after a quick search on my phone to check that bleach is flammable, I confidently unscrew the cap of sunflower oil and pour a generous amount into the frying pan.
Deep-frying chicken, is what my alibi will be. Karaage chicken is Sonny’s favorite.
That part isn’t a lie. It’s his Friday-night dinner of choice.
I keep the heat high and wait for the rest to unfold. Standing back, I watch the oil start to fizzle and pop, air stuck in my throat as I do something that could very much put my life in danger, never mind Sonny’s.
But his bedroom is far enough away for him to be safe.
Besides, this will all be over and done before I know it.
I’ll call the fire station, wait for them to put out the small blaze, and get in touch with the stove company as soon as the firefighters leave.
Money could be in my account before the day’s over.
Firefighters…
My breath catches.
Caleb was close to joining the station here in Maple Crossing…before the New York City Fire Department got him first.
It was everything to nothing in less than twenty-four hours.
Sharing a milkshake in the back of his rented truck.
Hands down the best one I’ve ever tasted.
My legs dangle from the car, while his are long enough to touch the ground.
God, he’s so fucking tall.
And hot.
We take turns drinking the milkshake. Didn’t wanna order a second—sharing one felt more intimate.
The sun goes down between the trees. Caleb says those trees are better than the New York City high-rises. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday,” he says. “If I can bring myself to leave this place.”
Strawberry kisses.
Summer sunsets.
He drops me off at home before it gets dark. With his arm hanging out the window, he says, “See you tomorrow, Hart.”
But tomorrow rolls around and he’s gone.
Some dumb senior firefighting position was more important than me.