It's well past midnight by the time I'm dragging my suitcase along the uneven cobblestones of Davens port main street. The night air is sharp and salted, every gust of wind slicing against my skin like it has a grudge. The stars are smothered by low clouds, and even the glow of the Christmas lights looks faint and tired, like they've given up trying to be cheerful.
The place where hope goes to die and people drink to forget. Even the pubs feel heavier here. The men inside don't drink for fun—they drink because they don't know what else to do.
But there's safety in forgotten places.
The wind whips at my coat as I stop in front of a chipped green door, squashed between a closed-down bike shop and a funeral home that somehow still has business. There's an "8" etched crookedly into the wood, and a dim streetlamp overhead flickers like it might give up at any second.
I give the door a nudge with my boot. It groans open, same as it did years ago when the landlord promised he'd get it fixed "right away." Either he lied, or he operates on geological time.
Inside, I lug my suitcase up the narrow stairs and bang on the door marked 8A, already bracing myself.
Footsteps. A lock clicks.
The door swings open and I'm met with the lopsided smirk of Matt Cooper—tall, blond, and terminally chilled-out in basketball shorts and socks that don't match.
"Well, shit. Look who finally fell off the face of the Earth and landed back in the Dip."
"Spare me the welcome-home speech," I mutter, eyeing the ridiculous doormat at his feet. "You really bought that?"
He looks down at the mat that says Hi, I'm Mat, grinning like a five-year-old who just told his first joke. "Get it? Like, Mat? My name?"
"You deserve to be robbed."
He laughs. "You've missed me."
"I've missed indoor plumbing. That's about it."
Still chuckling, he waves me inside. "Give me a second to find your spare key. You left it years ago under a six-pack of Corona, remember?"
I trail behind him into the small, neat apartment. It smells like laundry detergent and old pot. The walls are still painted that anonymous rental gray, and the throw pillows are lined up like soldiers. It's comforting in its blandness.
He rummages in a drawer in the kitchen while shouting over his shoulder. "It's the drawer where you dump all the stuff you don't know what to do with. Sim cards, screwdrivers, keys to mystery locks—holy shit, I just found a Tamagotchi."
"You're old."
"I'm twenty-four."
"Like I said—old."
I drop onto his couch and immediately sink into it. After days of riding grimy buses across the country, it feels like lying on a cloud. My bones crack with relief. I glance toward the muted TV in the corner and freeze.
There's a burning building on the screen.
Matt wanders back in, key in hand, and follows my gaze. "Oh yeah, some big casino fire in Atlantic City. Think it was one of those real bougie ones."
"Did they say what caused it?" I ask, trying not to choke on my heart.
"They're calling it arson," he says casually. "Guess someone wanted to send a message."
My fingers clench into the cushions, the smoke still thick in my lungs. I nod, swallowing hard. "Huh."
"Something wrong?"
"I'm just tired."
He softens. "C'mon, let's get you inside."
We cross the hall to my old apartment. He unlocks the door and flicks the light switch.
Dust floats through the stale air, but it's all exactly how I left it. The sagging sofa, the cracked tiles in the kitchen, the TV that needs a good smack on the side to work. It's like someone paused my life three years ago and hit resume the moment I walked in.
"It's just as I left it," I murmur.
Matt snorts. "Still a dump."
"Some of us don't teach hockey to spoiled rich kids."
"Some of us aren't fugitives either."
That earns him a glare.
"Okay, okay." He raises his hands in surrender. "Hey, listen—there's a fundraiser gala tomorrow night. The kind where people pretend to care about marine conservation so they can wear tuxedos and drink free champagne."
I blink. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm going, and I figured maybe you should come. You know, reintroduce yourself to society. Mingle. Find a job. You said you want to stay local."
"Not interested."
"Too bad. It's at the Hollow Hotel and I already RSVP'd for two. You're my plus-one now."
I shoot him a look, and he grins. "You'll thank me when you're sipping sparkling wine instead of instant coffee."
With a sigh, I wave him off. "Fine. But don't call me your date."
He winks. "Wouldn't dream of it. You're my cover."
"Cover?"
"For someone I actually like. You pretend to be into me, she gets jealous, I win."
I groan. "You're pathetic."
"See you at two," he calls as he vanishes down the hall.
The moment the door closes, silence settles thick and fast. I strip off the smoke-scented dress and dump it in the trash. I'm done with that chapter. With Atlantic City. With conning rich men who think they're smarter than me. The thrill doesn't outweigh the risk anymore.
I step into the bathroom and crank on the shower. The water's ice-cold, but it washes away more than grime—it scrubs off the person I used to be. When I step out, the mirror's fogged, and I can barely see my reflection.
Maybe that's for the best.
After drying off, I pad into the bedroom and toss my bag onto the bed. Something heavy clinks on the floor. I look down.
Lucious Kings necklace.
I pick it up, turning it over in my neck. The cold feel against my skin,, molded to the shape of his neck. His scent still clings to it—gold, mint, whiskey, and danger.
I should be angry. I should want to sell it immediately and never think of him again. But instead, a strange warmth flickers in my stomach.
I drop onto the bed and hold the watch to my chest.
For a second, I'm back in the bar. His voice. His eyes. The tension in the air like static before a storm. I remember the hammer. The threat behind his smile. The way he gave me the watch anyway.
I should hate him.
And I do.
Almost.
Later, wrapped in a blanket with the space heater buzzing at my feet, I dig into my duffel bag and pull out the burner phone I bought somewhere in Nebraska. I scroll past contacts that don't matter anymore, then tap the recorder app.
I don't keep a journal. Too risky. Too physical. But I started voice logging a year ago, on the nights when the weight of what I'd done wouldn't let me sleep.
I hit record.
"Hey… it's me. Not sure if this is Entry #41 or #47. I lost track somewhere between the gas station con in Tulsa and the blackjack hustle in Vegas.
But tonight… something happened. Something big. I ran into Raphael Visconti. Yeah. That Raphael.
And I nearly screwed up everything.
I don't know if he recognized me, or if he just found me amusing. But he gave me his watch. No threats. No demands. Just… dropped it into my pocket like it didn't weigh more than a house payment.
I've got to stop. The game. The cons. Everything. It's not fun anymore—it's survival. And it's getting harder to win."
I pause. Breathe.
"I want to try something new. Something different.
I want to be good. Just for once.
I want to know what it's like to earn something honestly.
And maybe—just maybe—I want to stop running.
So… let's try this. Clean slate.
Goodnight, Diary."
I stop the recording and stare at the ceiling, heart still racing from the memory of Lucious smirk.
Tomorrow, I'll go to the gala. I'll wear something decent and try to blend in. I'll meet someone who might give me a chance.
I'll play the game—but this time, I'll follow the rules.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But at least I'm not playing alone anymore.