A desperate woman accepts a dangerous deal at a remote lakeside lodge in exchange for one small thing, in this twisty cat-and-mouse thriller from the USA Today bestselling author of The Night Olivia Fell.
One small favor.
Sunday Reese is broke, hunted by a loan shark, and out of options. So when a car crash on a dark road leaves her stranded in a hospital far from anywhere she knows, it’s just one more stroke of bad luck.
Then Bec, the owner of a nearby lakeside lodge, offers her a place to recover. And a way out of the debts chasing her. All Sunday has to do is one thing for Bec first…
One impossible price.
But there are things Bec doesn’t know about Sunday. Things Sunday can’t run from forever.
When a woman turns up dead on the lodge grounds, a detective starts asking questions neither of them can afford to answer. Bec thinks she’s in control. Sunday has survived worse than her. Only one of them is right. And in this game, the losers end up dead.
What She Took
Chapter 1
The air is frigid, but the body under their fingers is still warm.
Ice crackles underfoot, frost glittering like tinsel. A full moon illuminates the trees around the lake. It casts them in stark shadow as they dance, twisting and snarling along the narrow dirt path that leads to a decaying dock jutting into a velvet black lake.
The younger woman stumbles, her foot catching on an exposed root. She drops her end of the homemade sling they’ve fashioned and issues a strangled cry. The body tumbles out. Just a little. A single arm flops out. A head lolls, dark hair brushing over blank, milky eyes.
If this person could speak now, what would they say?
Nice lodge. Nice town. Nice people. But you never really know what goes on inside. You never really know what people are capable of.
The younger woman emits a quiet sob, little gasping sounds that fall somewhere between terror and hysteria. “I’m sorry!”
It isn’t clear if she’s speaking to the other woman or the body.
“We’ll take the boat.” The other woman points to the small motorboat tied to the dock. “Not much farther now.”
The younger woman stares at the sheet of rippling velvet, saliva pooling in her mouth. She imagines fish pecking at eyeballs and water snakes slithering in hair, tearing off loose skin. “Do we have to put it in the lake?”
“It’s that or grab a shovel and start digging.”
At this time of year, the ground is frozen solid. The younger woman wipes her eyes and nods.
She lifts her end of the sling and together they maneuver down the sloping dirt path to the dock. They heave it into the boat, where it lands with a heavy thud. For a second they just stare at it.
“We have to take those clothes,” the other woman says, breathing heavily. “We’ll burn them. We can’t have anybody find any evidence.”
The younger woman climbs into the boat, but the rocking makes her stomach roil and her hands shake. She can’t tear the shirt from the body.
The other woman watches until the younger woman falls back, sobbing. She scowls and pulls a knife from a sheath at her ankle, bending to slice the shirt in one swift movement. She turns to the younger woman.
“If there’s one thing you learn,” she snaps, “let it be this: life is a zero-sum game. You have to look out for yourself. There’s no such thing as a second place winner. And in this game, the losers end up dead.”
______
And in this game, the losers end up dead.
______
Chapter 2
Sunday
Bad things happen in threes. So when I find the eviction notice taped to the room I rent in a shitty boardinghouse, I know more is coming. That’s just the way life goes. My life, anyway.
Number one was losing my job earlier today, Billy’s mouth twisting apologetically when he told me to come back tomorrow for my final tips. Like he was doing me some sort of favor or something.
I rip the eviction notice off my door, juggling expired bread, a jar of discount peanut butter, and a job advertisement from the library bulletin board.
“Oh fuck!” I breathe.
The hallway light buzzes, dims, like it’s holding its breath, then brightens again. The boardinghouse gives off abandoned motel vibes, where people go when life’s screwed them over. The carpet’s a gross purple-brown. The walls smell like other people’s dinners.
I glance over my shoulder, sidestepping to the hallway window. A gust of icy wind slaps at the window. My blurred reflection stares back through the murky glass as I peer outside, searching for a shadowy figure.
“Hi, Sunday!”
I whirl at a child’s voice. The peanut butter falls from my hand, rolling halfway down the hall.
“Ruby!” I exclaim.
Ruby, eight, lives across the hall. She’s been through more than any kid should have.
“Sorry.” Ruby scurries after the peanut butter, then hands it to me.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s sleeping.”
Alanna is always sleeping. Ruby eyeballs my peanut butter.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She nods, eyes wide.
I twist my key in the door, the keychain clattering loudly. It’s a metal cylinder with a mini corkscrew that my sister Autumn gave me before she died, back when we could still laugh about not knowing how to open a bottle of wine. Somewhere along the way she scratched our initials into it: AR, SR.
“Come in.”
I grope around in the dark for the light switch. For a second, nothing happens. I worry that Mrs. McClusky, the landlady, has cut off my electricity. But then the dirty bulb hums on, giving off a jaundiced, gloomy light.
It’s freezing cold in my room and I’m immediately greeted by a handful of mail that’s been stuffed under the door. I scoop everything up and toss it onto the cheap plastic table, along with the other bills and notices piling up.
The shabby room I rent has a ceiling that slopes downward, a sagging single bed and a frayed armchair. It’s a dump, but it’s my dump. For now. The carpet is worn and stained, the paint peeling, shedding its own skin. It’s cold, it smells, there’s mildew on the walls. Sometimes, some people, we just don’t have many choices.
“Somebody was knocking on your door earlier,” Ruby says.
I slide two pieces of bread onto a plate, slathering them with peanut butter, and hand them to Ruby.
“Was it Mrs. McClusky?” I ask dryly.
“Not that mean old witch.” She wrinkles her nose and shoves the sandwich into her mouth. “A man. He looked mad. He didn’t have any hair.”
I drop to my knees and grab Ruby’s shoulders. “Promise me if you see that man again you’ll stay away from him, okay?”
“Okay. But he didn’t see me. I hid behind the bookcase.” She nods toward the chunky, warped bookcase in the hallway.
“Good.” I finish making my sandwich, licking peanut butter from my fingers.
Ruby squints at me. She has a pointed chin and sharp gray eyes, almond-shaped, heavily lashed. Nothing gets past her. “Is he a bad guy?”
I hesitate. I don’t know much about kids, but I don’t want to scare her.
“It’s okay,” she says sadly. “You can tell me.”
I give in. “He is a bad guy. Make sure you stay away from him.”
She thinks about that. “Are you okay?”
How do I answer? I had so many dreams. I used to want everything. To be a famous actress. To have a house, a life that wasn’t this. And that isn’t even the worst of it.
Before I can answer, we hear a high, panicky voice calling Ruby’s name. Ruby throws my door open. “I’m right here, Mommy!”
Alanna wraps her arms around her daughter’s small body, pulling her tight against her. She spots the sandwich clutched in Ruby’s hand, her dark eyes finding mine. “Thank you,” she mouths.
I nod and shut the door behind them, leaving mother and daughter their privacy.
I eat my sandwich in silence, eyeballing the stack of bills piled on the table. At some point you stop opening them. You already know they’re bad, you already know the outraged Final Notice stamped in red across the top.
I have to pay rent and utilities to my landlady. That’s non-negotiable. It’s November and already the promise of snow is in the air. I can’t be homeless. I need heating. And that terrible sound coming from my car needs to be fixed soon.
There have been a series of these. Rent demands, overdraft fees, credit card bills. Sitting beneath them all, embarrassingly, a Final Notice demand for the acting school I stopped attending two years ago. But these aren’t the bills that are really scaring me.
I finish my sandwich, gaze falling on a thin, unmarked envelope. This one was left under my door today, while I was finishing my last shift at the diner.
“Last one in, last one out. Them’s the rules,” my boss said when she told me. “No hard feelings.”
Except there are, because she’s totally screwed me over.
I turn the envelope over. There’s no name. No return address. Nothing at all, in fact. I don’t know what’s inside, but my stomach twists tighter.
I slump into the plastic chair beside the table and stare at the envelope. I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache brewing. Finally, I gather my courage, slide a finger beneath the flap and tear it open. At first, I don’t see anything. I frown and tip the envelope upside down. A small square of newspaper clipping flutters onto the table. Thin, off-white paper. Cheap ink. The kind that stains your fingertips.
My gaze lands on the picture first. The room tilts sideways. It’s me. Not someone who looks like me. Me.
My mouth goes dry as I stare at my face smiling back at me. It’s the same headshot I used for auditions back when I still believed I could make it. I’m younger. Hopeful. Like someone who still thinks things might work out.
The picture is paired with an obituary.
Obviously it isn’t real because I’m not dead.
I drag my eyes downward, to the text.
Sunday Reese, 27, died unexpectedly this week. Once an aspiring actress with a sharp wit and an unmistakable presence, Sunday spent her later years working as a waitress in western Massachusetts. She was preceded in death by her mother, Diana and her younger sister Autumn. She is survived by no other family.
This is it. The third bad thing.
It isn’t a joke. It’s a threat. A warning. A countdown I don’t know the end of dressed up in ink and newsprint.
I fumble in my pocket for the other note I received recently, slipped under the windshield wipers of my car last week.
I know where you live. I know where you work. Pay up, or else.
______
It’s a threat. A warning. A countdown I don’t know the end of dressed up in ink and newsprint.
______
I stand, splitting the half-bent blinds and staring into the darkness. The rain has eased, night settling, dark and grim. Someone’s been following me lately. Him, I’m sure. A prickly feeling creeps up the back of my neck, the hairs rising. From somewhere far away, the sound of breaking glass cuts through the silence. I shrink away from the window, heart pounding.
I sink onto my bed, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyelids, just hard enough that I see stars. Just long enough that I’m sure the tears won’t come, even though I want to cry and rage and beg. To leave this problem for someone else to deal with. I wish I could call Autumn. Or a friend. A boyfriend. But there’s no one. Not anymore. My mom is gone, and despite seeing her slide into addiction, Autumn followed suit.
A sudden knock at my door makes me jump. I leap up, eyes wide, looking around for a weapon. Is he here? How does he know I’m home?
I grab a battered umbrella that’s standing in a corner, holding it like a baseball bat.
“Yes?” My voice comes out sounding stronger than I feel. I’m good at that, pretending, acting, being a better version of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was born.
“Sunday?”
It’s Alanna across the hall. I drop the umbrella and unlatch the door. Alanna stares at me, lips cracked, face pinched. She extends a small, battered box of cookies.
“I wanted to say thank you. For taking care of Ruby.”
The cookies rattle when I take them. The box is already open.
“Sorry.” Alanna looks flustered. “I gave some to Ruby. I just…”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
I don’t know what to do with the kindness she’s offering. I never have. People don’t do nice things for no reason. Autumn used to tease me about being too cynical.
“Not everything’s a transaction, Sunday,” she’d say. “You’re so…”
I’d cut her off, “I’m not cynical.”
And she’d laugh lightly. “Of course not. You’re just pragmatic.”
That’s how we talked, jokingly, self-deprecatingly, always finishing each other’s sentences. Right from the beginning, when Autumn learned to talk, it was that way.
______
I don’t know what to do with the kindness she’s offering me. I never have. People don’t do nice things for no reason.
______
That’s how we talked, jokingly, self-deprecatingly, always finishing each other’s sentences. Right from the beginning, when Autumn learned to talk, it was that way.
But standing here holding a half-empty box of cookies from a woman with even less than I have, I realize I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be shown kindness.
Alanna’s already turning away, wanting nothing in return.
“Alanna, wait…” I hurry back into my room. I pull open the dresser drawer and fish around inside until I find a cool metal key.
“I want you to have this.” I hand her the key.
She stares at me, baffled. “What is it?”
“Behind the bookshelf at the end of the hall there’s a small door. It leads to a storage room. If you ever need to get away…”
She nods, understanding immediately. If her ex ever finds her and Ruby, she has somewhere to hide. And then she’s gone, shuffling across the hall back to Ruby.
I shut the door and lean against it, nibbling a cookie. It is stale, Christ knows how old, but it’s delicious, tasting of something I stopped letting myself want a long time ago.
What is my next move, I wonder? And then my eyes fall on the job advertisement from the library. I pick it up, a plan unspooling.
GRANITE MOUNTAIN SKI RESORT – SEASONAL WORKERS NEEDED
Cleaners. Servers. Ski lift operators. Top wages. Paid weekly.
Bad things happen in threes. I’ve had my three. Which means, I tell myself, the worst is behind me. Because here’s a place to disappear for a while.
I think about the man who put this obituary in the newspaper. And the reason he did.
And I do the only thing left to do.
I pack my bags.
xxx
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