Fucking hell.

I’ve been all over this town. Nobody is hiring. At least not for what I’m qualified to do. Fat lot of good my degree in event planning is doing for me now. All the jobs that don’t require some type of education or degree have been snapped up by college kids home for the summer.

I have some money socked away, but I need more. I can’t just depend on my parents’ money. Their fishing business is lucrative, but there’s a chance they’ll have a bad season. It’s unlikely, but there’s always a chance. I need to cover a few bases without them. Namely, just enough to get me on a plane to somewhere in South America. Probably the Brazilian beach town I visited a few times as a child.

I’ll figure it out more once I get there, but my plan is to buy a bunch of beach chairs and rent them out every day. Same inventory, new money. I saw it happening when I went to Costa Rica for Spring Break my sophomore year of college. At the time, even dazed from shots of a liquor I didn’t know the name of, I saw what was happening and thought duh. This person knows what they’re doing down here.

It’s not exactly my dream job, but when life goes to shit, choices must be made.

Connor Vale’s business card has been staring at me for three days. I put it in the trash when I got home the night I played chicken with his truck, but the next morning I dug it out. Now it’s sitting on the kitchen counter, reminding me of a man with light brown hair and kind eyes.

And a job that pays in cash.

That means no W-2’s, no social security number needed, and most importantly, no background check.

The last thing I need is someone up here knowing what happened.

“Uggghhh,” I groan, taking my cell from my back pocket. I type in the number on the front of the card and stare at it, my thumb hovering over the screen. With a swipe, I cancel the call and put the phone back in my pocket.

I can only imagine what Connor thinks of me. I stepped in front of his car, for goodness sake. He might think I was frozen, the proverbial deer in the headlights, but no. It wasn’t a good night. I’d wandered through town, watched the families eating ice cream from the hand-dipped place, and listened to the music. It was too much for me. My mind raced, wondering what she was thinking that day. How someone could make that choice.

So I tried it too.

I saw the truck coming, the driver nothing but a shape behind a wheel. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, even though I knew that could be a consequence. I’ve never been able to understand why she stepped in front of my car on purpose. She didn’t trip in the street. She wasn’t a distracted pedestrian. Through the windshield, she met my eyes. She knew what she was doing. She made the decision.

It cost me everything.

My life, my job, my friends. It didn’t matter that I was innocent. That’s the day I learned the life-crushing impact held by headlines. Nobody reads the whole story when the soundbite is so sensational.

All my dirt came to the surface, like sunken ships resurrected by a hurricane. Troubled youth. Underage drinking citation. And then, the big one. Cited for driving under the influence. It didn’t matter that I was stone sober when it happened. My name was dragged through mud, spit at, and desecrated. The worst headline of all got the most clicks. They must have delighted in watching the numbers tick higher and higher.

Baby-Killer.

It didn’t matter that I was innocent, and due process had understood that from the beginning.

The article made it clear I didn’t kill the baby, but nobody reads the article. All it took was one unflattering photo taken at a college party, alongside a picture of the scene of the accident, complete with the stroller crushed like an accordion, and people assumed I had been drunk-driving and killed a mother and her baby.

In the court of public opinion, I was toast. The lowest of the low. Scum of the Earth.

My life disappeared the day that woman pushed her stroller in front of my car.

Now all I want is to disappear too.

I chose Ginger’s house because it’s close to a grocery store and a pharmacy.

I need places I can walk to. I haven’t driven a car since the day it happened, and I hope I never have to again. The problem, of course, is that I can only carry so much. I could push a grocery cart home, and then back to the store, but then I’d be the girl pushing a grocery cart down the street. On top of being new. Talk about giving people a reason to notice me.

The walk to the grocery store isn’t that bad, and it’s nice out. I take a deep breath. The scent of pine and clean air is invigorating. I spent all day in the small house, cleaning the same surfaces, and trying to keep the memories at bay. There’s a modest garden in the backyard that Ginger asked me to maintain. I told her I lacked a green thumb, and she asked only that I not kill it. I hung up on her when she said that, out of shock not anger, and when she called back I blamed it on a bad connection.

The nightmares have decreased. It helps I’m so far away from where it happened. I’m still in Arizona, but nothing looks the same here. The elevation changes the landscape, and it was enough to help me. I wish I’d known a long time ago that all I needed to do was go up.

On my way home I pass the house with the black door. A large window faces the street, just like my house. The curtains ripple, swing aside, and a man’s face peers through. His deep wrinkles are evident from my place on the sidewalk. So is the scowl. For a reason I don’t fully understand, I lift a hand and wave, the grocery bag waving with me. He disappears from the window.

Why did I do that? Maybe I felt a kindred spirit. He looked like how I feel.

I’ve taken three steps forward when the sound of a door opening stops me. The old man steps out, walking to the end of his short porch. His fingers curl around the railing, using it for support as he slowly steps down the stairs. His steps are quicker once his feet hit a flat surface, and in no time he’s close to where I am on the sidewalk.

“Hi,” I say, stepping forward to greet him. I’ve always had a thing for old people.

“You’re on my lawn,” he growls, pointing down.

I follow his hand, the back of it dotted with age-spots, and look down.

Sighing, I step off the grass and back onto the sidewalk. “Happy now?”

“Hardly. Why were you spying on me?”

I snort. “You were the one peeking out your window. What size binoculars do you have? Are they military-grade? Or the kid’s kind that come in bug-catching sets? Because—”

“Argh,” he rumbles, throwing his hands out in my direction. “You’re one of those chatty types, huh? Well, keep your chit-chat away from me. I’m not interested.”

“Then why are you still standing here?” I don’t even try to hide my smile. Grumpy old men are my favorite.

“You were on my lawn.”

“No, I wasn’t. Not when you first came out.”

“Don’t you argue with me, young lady. That’s the problem with youth. You don’t have any respect.” He goes on and on, and I let him. I know his type. My grandpa was one of them before he passed away. This guy is lonely.

When he’s finished, I ask for his name.

“Walt,” he answers, his tone still as gruff as it was when he came out of his house.

“I’m Brynn,” I tell him. If I held my breath waiting for him to ask I would probably pass out first.

He gives me a skeptical look. “Sounds an awful lot like Bryan.”

“It’s not.” I take a step away. “Have a nice day, Walt.” Two more steps.

“Why did you get dropped off last weekend?” he calls out. “Don’t you have a car?”

I turn back, and I can’t help my grin. “Obviously those binoculars you’re using are military-grade. Do they have infrared?”

“Bah,” he grumbles loudly, turning around and heading up to his house. I continue on to mine.

When I get home, I unpack the groceries. Connor’s card is still in the same spot it was when I set it down two days ago, after deciding not to call him. Today’s trip to the grocery store was a good reminder that I need funds. I don’t particularly care for ramen, and that’s exactly where I’m headed.

I pick up my phone and dial the number, glancing at the card to be sure I’ve typed it in correctly. This time, I don’t hesitate. No hovering thumb. One, two, three, push.

“Hello?” He answers on the third ring. He sounds frustrated, and I almost hang up the phone. Rock music blares in the background.

“Um, hi. It’s Brynn Montgomery.” My teeth catch my lower lip and I look at the ceiling. If this job didn’t pay in cash, there’s no way I’d be calling him.

“Oh, so you have a last name?”

I frown. That’s what he says to me? “Most people do.” I exhale loudly after I say it.

He laughs. “You’re a bit like a bear, you know that? Grumpy and ill-tempered.”

“Oh, really? I just met someone who fits that description far better than I do.” Cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder, I open a cabinet and pull out a saucepan.

“Let me guess,” he says warily. “You met Walt Jenkins.”

I pause. “He didn’t give me his last name, so I can’t say for certain. Apparently that’s common among us grumpy and ill-tempered people.”

“Old guy, lips turned so far down it’s like an upside down horseshoe on his face?”

“That’s the one,” I respond, taking a can opener to the three cans of tomatoes I just bought. I’m going to make marinara and freeze half.

“You should stay away from him, Brynn.”

My eyes meet the ceiling as I roll them. “He’s harmless, and besides, it’s kind of hard to stay away from a neighbor.”

Connor is silent. If it weren’t for the music still playing wherever he is, I’d think he hung up.

“Still there?” I ask, pouring olive oil in the pan and adding diced garlic.

Connor clears his throat. “Do you live next door to Cassidy?”

I picture the tiny blonde mom and her cute little girl. I’ve heard Brooklyn in the backyard every morning, laughing and shrieking. She does it again every evening.

“Yes. Why? Do you know her?” Leaning over the pan, I take a deep breath. The warmth of the oil has released the fragrance of the garlic, and it’s kicking my salivary glands into overdrive.

Connor doesn’t answer. Not with words. He laughs and laughs.

“What’s funny?” I ask, irritated.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

“Whatever,” I reply frostily, ready to be off the phone. I don’t care if he never tells me. I’ll be long gone as soon as I can manage it. “I called to see if that job was still available.”

“Nope,” he says, the answer coming so quickly it’s almost on top of my question.

Shit. What am I going to do now? The oil pops and a drop lands on the pad of my thumb. I suck my thumb between my teeth, my mind racing.

“Just kidding.” Connor laughs. “It’s available.”

My eyes squeeze shut as I try not to hang up on my new boss. “Pick you up tomorrow morning? Eight?”

“I’ll be ready,” I say, dumping the cans of tomatoes into the pan. “How did you know I need a ride?”

“Estimated guess. Brynn?” Connor’s voice is suddenly serious.

“Yeah?”

“I mean it when I say to stay away from Walt. He’s dangerous.”

What am I supposed to say? There’s already someone who wants my head on a spike, so the crotchety old guy can get in line behind him?

“Thanks for the warning. See you bright and early.”

I hang up and finish the sauce.

For the rest of the evening, I try hard not to think about the man who wishes I were dead instead of his family. It’s always a futile effort, and tonight is no exception. When hate is strong enough, clear enough, it’s easy to feel. He may as well be next to me, with his raw and unfettered hate radiating from his pores.

That night the nightmares return.