Chapter 1 — Somewhere Warm

Someone was touching my backpack.

I woke with a gasp and caught the wrist reaching across my lap.

“Don’t.”

The man crouching in front of me stopped immediately. Rain glittered on the shoulders of his dark coat. Behind him, another man held an umbrella over us, and a black SUV idled beside the curb.

“I’m not taking your bag,” he said. “You were slipping off the bench.”

I looked down.

One foot was planted on the pavement. The other had slid beneath the seat. My backpack was wedged between my stomach and the edge of the bench.

His hand had been keeping it from falling.

I released him.

“What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

The last time I had checked, the bus shelter’s advertising screen had read 1:47 a.m.

I had meant to stay awake.

The man studied my face without the hurried embarrassment people usually wore when they realized someone was sleeping outside.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

I tried to prove it.

My knees buckled before I straightened. He caught my elbow, and I hated how quickly I leaned against him.

“When did you last eat?”

“I’m waiting for a bus.”

He glanced at the empty street.

“Then you can wait somewhere warm.”

“Is that supposed to sound reassuring?”

“No. It’s an offer.”

His voice was quiet. Everything around him seemed arranged to hear it.

I pulled my arm away and sat down again.

“I don’t know you.”

“My name is Sebastian Romano.”

He waited, perhaps expecting recognition.

I had spent the day losing my job, my home, and the man I thought I would marry. I didn’t have anything left for a stranger’s reputation.

“Congratulations.”

The man holding the umbrella looked away.

Sebastian didn’t smile.

“Do you have someone I can call?”

My phone was dead. Before it died, I had scrolled through my contacts three times and called no one.

“No.”

“A place you can go?”

I tightened my arms around the backpack.

He looked at my soaked sneakers, then back at me.

“There’s a guest room in my house. You can lock the door from the inside. In the morning, someone will drive you wherever you choose.”

“Why?”

He paused.

At the time, I thought he was deciding what lie would work.

“Because you shouldn’t be here.”

A bus rounded the corner. I stood and raised my hand, desperate to make my original story true.

The sign above the windshield read NOT IN SERVICE.

It passed without slowing.

For a moment, I couldn’t make myself turn around.

My boss had called it budget cuts.

My landlord had called it an emergency vacancy order, although he’d let me keep paying rent until that afternoon.

Ethan had called it being honest.

Three years together, and he had waited until I stood in our apartment holding my termination letter to tell me he had packed my things.

He wouldn’t let me stay until morning.

When I asked where I was supposed to go, he looked at his suitcase.

“I don’t know, Olivia.”

That was the last thing he said to me.

Now this stranger stood behind me, offering a bed.

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s usually the expensive kind.”

“You can keep your phone, your bag, and your money.”

I looked at him sharply.

“I’m not interested in any of them,” he added.

The rain had worked its way beneath my collar. My hands were shaking hard enough that the zipper on my backpack rattled.

I could refuse him and remain on the bench.

I could accept and be frightened somewhere warm.

“I’m keeping the bag with me.”

“Of course.”

He stepped aside so I could reach the car without passing between him and the curb.

I remembered the leather seat. A heater blowing against my frozen fingers. Someone asking whether I wanted water.

Then nothing.

I woke in a bed I had not agreed to get into.

I sat upright so quickly the room tipped.

Tall windows. Ivory curtains. A marble fireplace with a low flame burning behind a screen.

My backpack stood on a chair beside the bed.

I scrambled toward it.

Two shirts. Jeans. Toothbrush. Wallet. The photograph of my mother holding me when I was six.

Eleven dollars folded in the side pocket.

And the brass key.

I closed my hand around it before checking anything else.

My mother had given it to me before she died. For twenty years, I had carried it without knowing what it opened.

It was the one thing I had never lost.

My phone lay beside a charging cable on the nightstand. The screen lit when I touched it.

No messages from Ethan.

A glass of water and a sealed packet of crackers sat nearby.

I was still wearing my jeans and sweater. My shoes had been placed on a towel beside the fireplace.

I checked the bedroom door.

Unlocked.

There was a bolt on my side.

That helped. A little.

After using the bathroom, I put on my damp shoes, shouldered the bag, and went looking for the way out.

The corridor smelled of polished wood. Downstairs, a staircase opened into a foyer larger than our entire apartment.

I followed the sound of dishes into a kitchen.

A silver-haired woman stood at the counter, cutting toast into triangles.

When she saw me, the knife stopped.

Something changed in her face before she lowered her eyes.

“Good morning.”

Her voice was rough, as though speaking hurt.

“Where am I?”

“Mr. Romano’s home.”

“That’s not an address.”

“No.” She set down the knife. “I can write it for you.”

A pale seam ran along her jaw. When she reached for a pen, her sleeve shifted, revealing uneven skin at her wrist.

“What happened last night?”

“You fell asleep in the car. The driver brought you here.”

“Who put me in the bed?”

“Two of the staff helped you upstairs. I stayed while they did.”

I watched her.

She endured the inspection without asking me to stop.

“Your belongings are all there?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you like coffee?”

I wanted to refuse.

My stomach made the decision embarrassing.

She pushed a plate toward an empty chair.

Beside it lay a folded note.

Olivia.

My name, written in black ink.

Inside were six words.

Stay until you can stand again.

I looked up.

“How does he know my name?”

“Your identification was in your wallet.”

“Someone went through my wallet?”

“To know who to call if you needed a doctor.”

The explanation was reasonable.

I still didn’t like it.

“What’s your name?”

“Marta.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Her hand rested beside the plate.

“A while.”

I ate the toast because I was hungry, drank the coffee because it was hot, and refused the eggs because accepting more felt like agreeing to something.

Marta wrapped two pieces of toast in a napkin anyway.

“For later.”

I took them.

At the front door, she showed me the exit without blocking it.

Outside, the gates stood open.

A driver waited beside a black sedan.

“Miss Carter? Mr. Romano asked me to take you wherever you need to go.”

He offered an envelope.

Inside was another note.

If you choose to leave, at least let someone drive you somewhere warm.

I looked beyond the gates.

The street offered no answer I hadn’t already tried.

Before I could invent a destination, an SUV turned into the driveway.

The man from the bus shelter stepped out.

In daylight, I could see the gray beginning at his temples, the hard line of his mouth, the green eyes that had watched me without looking away.

“Miss Carter,” he said. “Did you sleep?”

I held up the envelope.

“Do you always communicate through your employees?”

“When I’m not here.”

“Then you’re here now. Why did you bring me to your house?”

He stopped several feet away.

“Because I saw you.”

I stared at him.

For the first time since waking, I wondered whether knowing my name was the smallest thing he hadn’t explained.