the time I’m dragging my suitcase over the cobbles of Devil’s Dip main street. Although just a forty-minute bus ride along a winding coastal road, it couldn’t be more different from Devil’s Cove. The sky is black and the streets silent, save for the harsh, salty wind cracking against my cheeks like a whip.
Dip is like Cove’s scruffy cousin. The one that got disinherited from the will and no longer gets invited to family reunions. It’s dirtier, darker. Even the glow around the Christmas lights is murkier. There’s no money in its bars and restaurants, just old, tired men slumped over their beers and greasy chicken dinners after a long day of slinging cargo at the port.
Like moths to a flame, most residents gravitate to the bright lights of Cove for employment, just like my parents did. They take the six-one-eight bus from opposite the old church at the top of the cliff, work a twelve-hour shift waiting on the rich and the rude, then retreat back to the slums with an apron full of tips and aching feet.
I won’t be joining them now that I’m going straight. In Cove, temptation and danger live in the light, making it near-impossible to miss. In Dip, the only things that can hurt me are the memories locked away in the Victorian townhouse five streets away.
I haven’t been back there since the murder, and I don’t plan on changing that.
I come to a stop outside a flaking green door. It’s sandwiched between a bike shop and a funeral home, and if it weren’t for the flickering glow of a nearby streetlamp, most mailmen would miss entirely the number eight carved into its wood.
It groans open with a little nudge from my boot. When the realtor handed me the keys a week after my eighteenth birthday, he mentioned the main door was busted, but the building owner was going to fix it “right away.”
I guess we have different interpretations of what “right away” means.
I climb the narrow staircase to the second floor, dump my suitcase and purse on the lino tiles, and stride over to 8A’s door. I hammer my fist against it and glare down at the door mat in disbelief.
Hi, I’m Mat.
Muffled footsteps, the turn of a lock, then a tall, blond guy darkens the doorway. He’s wearing basketball shorts and an annoyed scowl. It softens into a lop-sided grin when he looks down at me.
“Well, well, well. Look what fly decided to return to the dump.”
I ignore him. “Did you lose a bet?”
He frowns. “No?”
“So you bought this welcome mat voluntarily?”
We both glance back down at the floor and Matt chuckles. “You don’t think it’s funny?”
“I think it makes you deserving of being burgled.”
“But it’s a pun on my name. Jeez.” He runs a hand over his floppy hair. “You, Penny Price, wouldn’t know a good joke if it slapped you around the face.”
Irritation slithers up my spine. “I’ve got a good joke.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. Knock knock.”
His eyes thin. “All right. Who’s there?”
“Your favorite neighbor, and she’s about to set fire to your welcome mat if she doesn’t get the key to her apartment in the next five seconds.”
Matt frowns, then breaks into an easy grin. “Still an asshole, huh?”
“Unfortunately.”
With a small shake of his head, he walks down the hallway and invites me in with a lazy swoop of his hand. “Come in and make yourself comfortable. Finding this key might take me a while.”
“Why? Have you become messy?” But as I come to a stop in the small, familiar living room, I know that he hasn’t. It’s as nice and neat as I remember, filled with gray and cream furnishings.
“No, Penny, but you gave me your key—what, almost three years ago now? Well, you didn’t give it to me. You left it on my doorstep under a crate of beer and then vanished without a trace.” He disappears into the kitchen, and metallic-punctuated rummaging ensues. “You’re lucky I still have it. It’s in that kitchen drawer. You know, the one you toss everything that doesn’t have a home in?” More clanking. “Fucking hell,” he grunts. “I’ve got phone chargers, sim cards, screws for god-knows-what.” The noise stops. “Whoa, I’ve just found a Walkman. Remember them?”
“No, because I’m twenty-one.”
“Hey! I’m only a couple years older than you, girl.”
I bite back a smile and drop to the sofa. Bad idea. Soft cushions and warm nostalgia engulf my aching muscles like a hug, and for a brief moment, my lids flutter shut. After three years of living in a shitty studio apartment that shares a wall with a crack den, I can now appreciate how good I had it having Matt as a neighbor for the few months I lived here. The night I got the keys for my place, he knocked on my door armed with beer and a boatload of stories about the toxic couple who lived upstairs. As far as men go, he’s great. Easy to talk to, doesn’t have a wandering eye, and is stoned into tranquility most weekends. He teaches Physical Education and ice hockey at the posh academy in Devil’s Hollow, and if I bet a stranger a million dollars if they could guess his profession in three tries, I’d be in a hell of a lot of debt. He has surfer-dude hair, likes his clothes baggy and NHL-branded, and he says annoying things like, “Just chill, man.”
In an attempt to stay awake, I force my eyes open and focus on the television screen in the corner of the room. There’s a news reporter talking at me, both expression and tone sinister. My gaze catches on the scene she’s standing in front of. On the burning building and the thick tendrils of smoke melting into the dark sky above it.
Immediately, my throat tightens.
Matt appears in the doorway, a set of keys dangling from his forefinger. He glances at the screen. “Fire at a casino in Atlantic City. Think someone spent too much on the slot machines and wanted revenge?”
My fingers claw at the doughy seat on either side of me. It’s made national news? Shit. “Mm. Maybe.”
“The police seem to agree with me.”
“What?”
“Earlier, they were saying they suspect it’s arson, not like, sketchy wiring or anything.”
My palms may be sweaty, but my blood runs ice-cold. “Arson.”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” His gruff laugh floats across the living room and touches my clammy skin. His mouth is still moving but I’m not listening, because now, I’m suddenly too aware of my stench—a cocktail of smoke and sin. Because now, all I can hear are those stupid words again.
Your sins will catch up with you eventually, Little P. They always do.
No. I’m safe here. Dip is quiet, and nobody saw me leave, let alone where I went.
“Hey, you okay?”
I manage a nod, mutter something about being tired, and rise to my feet.
“Here, let me grab your stuff,” he says, snatching up my suitcase.
I follow him across the hall, half-listening as he says something about the lock being stiff, and then we’re standing in the entryway to my old apartment.
Matt fist bumps a light switch, flooding the space with a stale yellow glow. I take it all in through one cautious eye, bracing myself for the worst. It’s been untouched for three years, so I’m half-expecting the ceiling to have sunken in, or for rats to have taken over the bedroom.
Instead, it’s frozen in time underneath a thin layer of dust. Nothing’s changed. The hallway is still the size of a prison cell and as haphazardly painted. It leads to the living room which isn’t much bigger. The two-seater sofa I bought off Craigslist has held up well. It faces a television set so old it has a dial on the front of it. I drop my gaze to the stained gray carpet, and make a vow to give it a good vacuum before I walk on it barefoot.
“It’s just as I left it,” I announce, warm relief flaring up inside my rib cage.
“It is? Jesus Christ,” Matt mutters. I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, bewilderment smeared on his face. “You could have told me squatters took over the place and I’d have believed you. I’d forgotten how…shitty it was in here.”
I laugh and shake my head. When alcoholism took hold of my parents, our town house began to rot. The floral wallpaper wilted, and the granite kitchen counters lost their sheen, no matter how often I went at them with soapy water. I did what I could with stolen cleaning products and a bit of elbow grease, but there’s only so many times you can scrub your mother’s sick from the living room carpet before it leaves a lingering smell. There were only so many times I could force myself to care, too.
After they were shot, I bounced between foster homes for the next five years, staying in sterile rooms made for the occasional house guest, not orphaned teens. The day I turned eighteen, I got a call from a lawyer. Between the vodka shots and the incoherent arguments, my parents hadn’t had time to write a will, but apparently, they’d had enough smarts to put money in an off-shore bank account for when I became of legal age. It was a bullshit story but I didn’t care to dig deeper, because there was just enough money in there for me to buy this place. I only stayed for a few months before I packed up my shit and took a Greyhound to pastures new. I followed the bright lights from one coast to another and ended up in Atlantic City. My studio apartment there had the kind of mold that makes your lungs burn in the morning, so I’m kind of happy to be home.
Matt’s gaze follows me as I cross the room and run my hand over the glass dining table pushed up against the far wall. I inch back the curtain and peer down at the cobbled street below. There’s the bakery opposite, and if I push my nose up against the glass and look right, I can make out the red, plastic booths of the diner.
That’s the thing about Devil’s Dip. Nothing ever changes.
“What brought you back to town, anyway?”
The muscles in my back tense. Truth is, when I scooped my life into a suitcase and left Atlantic City, returning to the Coast was the last thing on my mind. I didn’t consider it until I hopped off the bus that took me as far as Portland. Shivering under a bus shelter and at a loss as to where to go next, I typed in quietest towns on the West Coast into Google. Devil’s Dip was number three on Wendy Wanderlust’s travel blog. Coincidentally, there was a bus leaving for Devil’s Cove in less than thirty minutes, and the price of the ticket amounted to the exact change I had in my pockets.
That’s the type of luck that has summed up my life.
“Missed the amazing weather,” I reply dryly.
He chuckles. “Yeah? You got a job yet?”
That’s my next hurdle: finding a job in Devil’s Dip. It’s going to be near-impossible, because in a small town, there’s only one of everything. One grocery store, one diner, one pizza place. It seems like the people who work in these establishments cling onto their jobs for dear life, and the only time there’s ever a vacancy is when someone dies or retires.
“Nope, but if you hear of any going, will you let me know?”
“Ah, I’m sure there’s a million bars and restaurants in Cove that’ll have—”
I cut him off, firm and fast. “I want to stay local, so I’m only looking in Devil’s Dip.”
No Cove, no Hollow. It would be too tempting to stick my hands in deep pockets, and I’m trying not to do that anymore.
I turn around just in time to see suspicion thread through Matt’s gaze. He opens his mouth, no doubt with a barrage of questions on his tongue, but I get there before he can. “Thanks for helping me with my stuff. Perhaps we’ll catch up this weekend, if you’re around?”
A hint that even an idiot couldn’t miss. He pushes himself off the door frame and takes two steps back into the shadows of the hallway. “Sure thing, I’ll leave you to it.” He pauses at the front door. “You got any plans tomorrow?”
“Depends on what you’re about to propose.”
“A wedding. Free food, free liquor, and a good time. What’d you say?”
I frown. “Who’s getting married?”
“Remember Rory Carter?”
I groan. Not because I don’t like Rory—quite the opposite, in fact. She’s one of the nicest girls on the Coast. She went to the only other school in Devil’s Dip and also worked the night shift at the diner at the end of the street. Every time I went in, she gave me an extra portion of fries or a hot chocolate on the house, and I kept her company while she cleaned tables and did stock-checks. She was probably only nice to me because my parents were killed, but still, she was the closest thing I had to a female friend.
No. I groaned because Rory is the same age as me, which means I’m at the age where people have their shit figured out.
I, on the other hand, am very far from having my shit figured out.
“Who is she marrying? Anyone I know?”
Matt cocks his head in thought. “No, don’t think you’d know him. So, what do you say? You want to be my date?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and mull it over. I guess it’d be nice to see some old faces, and I probably have a suitable dress gathering dust in my closet. Besides, maybe I’ll meet someone who’s hiring.
“I’m down, as long as you don’t call me your date.”
“No, you’re not my date, you’re my wing-woman. This girl I like is going.”
“So, what? You want me to sing your praises to her in the bathroom?”
“No; I want you to look at me like you’re in love with me and pretend to laugh at my jokes. Then, when she realizes how hot I look in a tux, I need you to make yourself scarce.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Has that ever worked for you before?”
He flashes me a wink. “Dunno, never tried it. I’ll pick you up at two pm.”
He breezes out of my apartment, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts and the noisy whir of the heating unit.
Shower. After almost three days in the back of stinky buses, smelling like a walking, talking ashtray, the thought of a shower is my idea of heaven, even if it’ll be cold, because I haven’t turned on the water heater yet. I drop my coat on the floor and peel myself out of this too-tight dress. Even though it’s more expensive than all of my other clothes combined, I can’t wait to throw it out. The rest of me may smell like smoke and sweat, but this dress reeks of whiskey and close-calls, and I never want to see it again. Plus, it’s part of my past. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up, and I’m going to be good.
The icy water streams down my body, dampening my hair and biting at the tension between my shoulder blades. In spite of it, I feel more relaxed because the promise of a new life is on the horizon. Coming back to Devil’s Dip has given me a second chance and somewhere to start over. Somewhere Martin O’Hare will never find me.
I’m going straight.
I’m going to find a job and hold it down for longer than a week.
And I’m going to finally figure out what interests me in this world, other than taking men’s money.
By the time I’ve dried off and detangled my hair, a tiny smile of contentment tugs at my lips. I pull on fluffy socks and pad down the hall toward the bedroom, where a single bed with a naked bulb swinging from the ceiling above it greets me. Sighing, I drop my bundle of clothes at the bottom of it, and something falls out of my coat pocket and onto the floorboards.
Raphael Visconti’s watch. I sit on the edge of the bed and scoop it up. I run a thumb over the smooth crystal face and down the length of its leather straps.
Strangely, it’s still warm, like he slipped it off his thick wrist and into my pocket just moments ago. Maybe it’s the extreme fatigue, or maybe I’m just a certified psychopath now, but for some reason, I lift it to my nose and breathe in its scent. The tangy cocktail of leather and lingering aftershave sparks a small, flickering flame in the pit of my stomach, and for a dark, dangerous moment, I’m back in the bar. Surrounded by slow swirls of amber, flashes of silver, and glittering green.
I reflexively clench my thighs together.
Christ, I must be tired, because fuck him. I don’t care who he is or how many bodyguards he has, he came at me with a hammer. The worst part? It seemed to be some sort of joke to him.
I fall back on the bed and let out a little laugh. I can’t help it, because, despite being petrified at the time, I’m still heady from the adrenaline rush of it all. Big wins only come from big risks, and, well, I definitely risked it all tonight.
My amusement settles on my skin like dust and gives way to a dull ache behind my breast. To be honest, I’ll miss my grifting ways. I’m not giving up the game because I’m bored with it, but because it’s the right thing to do.
I’ve always known it was wrong, which is why I’ve spent the last three years trying to find a career that’s right. When I arrived in Atlantic City, the first thing I did was scope out the casinos, and the second was sign up for a library card. Every Monday, I’d stand in front of the For Dummies section, close my eyes and brush my pointer finger along the spines. Whatever book I landed on I had to read, no matter how boring the topic. My logic was that maybe, just maybe, I’d find something within the pages that shone light on the darkness inside of me. Something that came close to the thrill of card counting or edge sorting or lifting a wallet out of a man’s slacks while he was distracted by my tits.
But so far, no dice. German Grammar. Real Estate. Trainspotting. Every book I’ve picked up has bored me to tears.
I get up off the bed and walk over to my suitcase to put the watch in its front pocket for safekeeping. I’ll figure out how I’ll sell it tomorrow.
As I scoop up a pile of clothes from the bed, something lying underneath it catches my eye.
A card.
I pick it up and flip it over.
Sinners Anonymous. The letters are embossed in gold, and underneath, there’s a number printed in silky black digits. I stare at it for a few heavy seconds, and then without thinking I snatch up the burner phone I bought at a truck stop somewhere in the Midwest and punch in the number.
The line rings three times, then it clicks into the voicemail service.
“You have reached Sinners Anonymous,” a woman’s robotic voice says. “Please leave your sin after the tone.”
There’s a long beep, followed by a static silence.
I sink onto the bed. Close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
“Hello, old friend. It’s been a while.”
