Chapter One
Emily
As I reach my truck in the pre-dawn light, I know something’s wrong. One corner of my toolbox, bolted to the bed of my truck, curls upward where someone wedged a crowbar under it and forced it open.
I quicken my steps and plant one booted foot onto the rear tire to vault over the side. I come down heavily in the back of my truck, nothing left out in the open for a casual thief to run off with. But as I kneel in front of my toolbox and spot the broken lock, I realize I wasn’t cautious enough.
The box should be crowded with metal, two drills, and a framing nailer I’ve babied for years, but this morning, it sits empty. Just an oily rag and a socket wrench rolling around where thousands of dollars’ worth of tools should be.
My jaw tightens. Someone at the docks had the guts, or the desperation, to jimmy my toolbox after I left it overnight.
I’d stayed here late last night, doing one last check on the water taxi loading area, double-checking that the lumber tarps were tight and the generators chained. By the time I finished and locked up, I was too tired to bother driving home.
So, I took advantage of the room the Misty Pines owners keep on reserve at the hotel near the docks and crashed there for the night, figuring Pinecrest was safe enough to leave my truck for a few hours.
Guess not.
I slam the lid harder than I mean to, the sound echoing across the quiet, predawn street. My brain buzzes with calculations of what it will cost to replace, how much is in my bank account, and whether this will delay work for the day. The Misty Pines Resort has had enough setbacks. Nathaniel already took a risk in hiring my crew for a build this size. I can’t give him a reason to regret it.
I can’t let them down.
The battered cat carrier on the passenger floor rattles as I climb behind the wheel, and my stomach lurches. It’s been eight months, and I still can’t bring myself to haul it to the shelter. Everytime I touch it, I see Auren’s face the day we brought Mixie home, and my fingers go numb.
When Auren left, he took Mixie with him. At the time, he said I could still come to visit and take our cat for weekend visits. But as with every other promise out of his pretty little mouth, it turned out to be a lie, too.
I should’ve learned my lesson then. Don’t trust, don’t share, don’t leave anything important where someone else can grab it.
My phone buzzes, and when I pull it from my pocket, I find a notification on the screen for a photo Auren tagged me in. Before I can stop myself, I swipe to open it, and his beautiful image fills the screen, wrapped up in the plum-purple scarf I spent weeks crocheting after he went to bed so it would be ready when the first frost of the year arrived.
The caption reads:
Done with summer. Can’t wait for fall.
In the photo, his lush mouth tilts up in that coy way he used to save for me, and heat spikes in my belly before it sours. I need to block him. Same as I need to donate the cat carrier. Neither of them are coming back.
With a curse, I toss the phone into the cupholder and put my truck into gear. The radio plays static as I drive, the volume set to one tick above mute. Out the window, the trees whip by, lush and overgrown, shadows deep under their canopies, alive with the hum of summer insects.
Pinecrest’s main drag wakes with the rising sun, the heat of the day already promising another scorcher. I roll past the bakery, its doors open for business, and consider stopping to pick up donuts for the construction crew. They’ve been putting in hard work to bring our project on Misty Pines Island back on track.
But then I catch sight of the bus stop bench where Auren used to wait for me with iced coffee after work, and I keep driving.
I tap the steering wheel, count the seconds, and resist the urge to check my phone when it buzzes in the cup holder.
It better not be another notification that Auren tagged me in.
More likely, it’s an email from the Project Manager, Nathaniel, with the daily check-in. He likes his lists as much as I do, and we touch base every morning to ensure we’re on the same page. Or, god forbid, it’s the architect, Dominic, proposing another change to the Homestead. If itis, I’m going to wring his neck. The man can’t stop picking at the plan.
The Misty Pines pack is small, and their resort project is a huge undertaking. I know it’s important to them. It’s important to me, too. But when I don’t want to hug them and promise it will all work out, I want to throttle them.
The light ahead turns yellow, and I flick the turn signal, though nobody waits behind me, taking the right as the light shifts to red.
By the time I arrive at Pinecrest Pawn, my jaw hurts from clenching. The stretch of road in front of it sits empty, and I pull my truck over, angling the wheels hard toward the curb before I kill the engine. The sudden silence leaves my ears ringing, and I miss the white noise that at least offered a little company.
I eye the cat carrier again. I should at least move it to the backseat, though no one sits up front with me anymore. But at least it wouldn’t be a constant reminder. It’s been long enough now. I need to move on.
The neon light in the pawn shop’s window comes on, announcing it’s open fifteen minutes early.
Leaving the carrier where it sits, I hop out of my truck and stride across the sidewalk to the frontdoor. When I step inside, the scent hits me, dusty and sour. Every surface is packed with guitars missing strings, a blender from the ’80s, and box fans stacked three high, still dirty from last summer’s heat wave.