Chapter 1

"It's not a big deal, right?" I ask Lainey. We're sitting on my green velvet, curb-find couch with a couple of sweating beers. It's barely three o'clock on a Thursday, but I've decided it's happy hour in my apartment. "People get fired all the time. I mean, it wasn't even a good job."

"No," she agrees, "it was a terrible job. That woman abused you." She waves around my one-bedroom apartment, which looks particularly sad in the bright July light flooding through the cracked single-pane windows of the sagging Brooklyn brownstone. It's as if every speck of dust has been magnified, every brown cardboard box made to look larger. "But this palace of yours isn't going to pay for itself."

The woman has a point.

"I'm not one to talk, though," she adds morosely, tugging on her short black hair. "I'm hardly contributing."

Lainey's allowed to be down in the dumps. Her very rich, big-dicked fiancé left her a month ago, and she got the boot from his penthouse apartment in the Upper East Side. I told her to come sleep on my couch, which was a great idea in theory—best friends since childhood and college roommates, together again—and I'm glad she's here. Truly glad. Especially because she's going through something, and I want to be her scaffolding. But I didn't account for all the crap that has flooded my tiny living room. There are so many boxes that I feel like I'm making my way through a maze every time I try to go to the kitchen or bathroom, and I nearly injured myself last night in the dark. I need to have a calm, reasonable discussion with her, but every time I try, I chicken out. Because I know it has to feel like a pretty bad comedown, going from that to this. She has a job at a fashion boutique, but she's making less than I was at my job for Agnes Lewis.

I heave a sigh, thinking of all the pointless hours I spent in a dark, miserable cubicle, trying to satisfy someone who took pleasure in being chronically disappointed. "It wasn't even my fault," I mutter. "It only said it was alcoholic in the fine print, and you know what Agnes said about my reading glasses."

"She was right," Lainey replies. "They do make you look like a bug. But a cute bug, like your dad's nickname for you."

"Thanks." I give her shoulder a shove, and she gives me the sad smile of someone else who feels like they're on the gallows, waiting for their turn. Sighing again, I add, "She actually forbid me to wear them at the office. So I didn't."

"She basically did it to herself."

I smile at the encouragement. "You know, if it had been a normal day, it would have been okay. She would have slept it off in her office. Maybe she would have even been nice to everyone for a change."

"It's okay, Claire. Everyone will forget what happened before too long. You know how it goes, another day, another crisis."

But she's wrong. It's not every day a world-famous lifestyle guru—the woman known as the next Martha Stewart—stumbles onto a morning show drunk at nine a.m. because her assistant mistakenly gave her an alcoholic fizzy juice drink someone had sent over as a sample. A drink she'd enjoyed so much, she'd downed three cans before lurching onto set, calling the host a mealy-mouthed fuck-tart on camera, and then vomiting on her own shoes.

"Doug convinced her I did it on purpose," I add spitefully, wanting to grind him into the ground with one of Lainey's high heels.

"Of course he did," she says with a groan. "Doug is a spiteful prick."

He's my ex…situationship. When you work twelve to fifteen hour days, you don't have time to mess around with anyone who doesn't work with you. Or at least in the same part of the city as you. Which is my only explanation for why I started sleeping with the head of PR, a man who's fifteen years older than me and, yes, named Doug.

At first it was fun in a forbidden, will-they-or-won't-they way, but it didn't take very long for me to realize I really shouldn't have.

He wasn't very good in bed—or in supply closets—and he always talked down to me, like I was a little girl, even though I'm twenty-eight, thank you very much.

He didn't take it well when I told him I was ready to call it quits. He started closing elevator doors on me and going out of his way to make me look stupid in meetings. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he sent those juice drinks, knowing it was exactly the sort of thing Agnes would suck down.

Lainey rubs my back. "We both have bad taste in men. Go us. Hey, why don't we consult the Tarot about what you should do next?"

I try to hold back another groan. A client of the boutique gave the cards to her a few days ago, and she acted like she'd been gifted a winning lottery ticket. She's been trying to figure out a business idea that'll make us bank, but can't seem to narrow in on one plan. Last week, after scrubbing Todd off her social media, she speculated that "love erasing"—getting rid of all evidence, online and in real life, of a lying, cheating snake—should be a service someone offers, and maybe we should be the ones who offer it. But I pointed out it wouldn't be very healthy for her psyche right now. Then she moved on to the idea of becoming "really good" with the tarot cards, even though I haven't seen her practice once since she brought them home.

I have zero interest in a reading, but right now nothing's going to make me happy, so she might as well enjoy herself. I take another swig of my beer and nod. "Go for it."

She gives a squeal and reaches into one of the fifty boxes stacked up around the living room. Really, something's got to give.

She gets the cards out and starts shuffling them as if we're about to play Go Fish.

"Do you know what you're doing?" I ask with some interest.

"No," she says with a snort, "but I Googled it, and I've heard you can do a reading with just one card." Shoving a spread toward me, she adds, "Pick one with intention."

I suck in a breath and slowly let it out. When I got a job working for the Agnes Lewis, I felt invincible. The other students in my graduating class from NYU were jealous or impressed. I figured I'd pay my dues, and then she'd help me launch my own business, same as she'd done for past assistants. My dream was to open a bakery and create confections special enough to make busy New Yorkers pause and lose themselves in wonder, and I was certain the bakery would be mine if I just held out for long enough. Years passed, promises were made, but it never happened. I just kept paying my dues as one year went by, two, three, seven. Now, here I am at almost thirty, unemployed, broke, single, and living in a maze of boxes.

I want something exciting to happen, I think as I pull the card.

I turn it over on the palette-wood coffee table, which presides over two short boxes. The card has a drawing of a skeleton riding a horse, and the word DEATH is emblazoned beneath it.

"Yeah, I really wish I hadn't done that," I say, but Lainey scrunches her mouth to the side and picks up her phone. A second later, she lifts a finger. "This says the Death card is usually about big changes, not death per se."

"That's super helpful." My phone buzzes in my pocket. I tug it out and frown at the UNKNOWN NUMBER readout on the screen. "Another phishing call. Great."

"Why don't you answer and tell the person off? I did that after Todd broke up with me. It made me feel fantastic for at least three minutes." She tucks her own phone away and gives me a long look. "You're too much of a people pleaser, Claire. It would be good for you."

I hesitate for a long moment. The person on the other end of that call is probably a peon with a terrible boss, same as I had. Why ruin their day? On the other hand, maybe they find it entertaining when people flip the script. Lainey's still looking at me, her expression suggesting she doesn't think I'm going to do it, so I shrug and answer the call.

"Is this Claire Rainey?" asks the woman on the other end. Her voice is confident and throaty.

"Yes, who's this?" I say, lifting my eyebrows at Lainey, who mimes for me to put the phone on speaker.

I do, smiling at her.

"Nicole," says the woman.

"And what are you trying to sell me today, Nicole?" I ask, my tone haughty, the way Agnes talks to everyone. Lainey stifles a laugh and gulps her beer. "Because I can assure you I'm not interested in buying tinctures or Tupperware, and I don't have a car, so I'm pretty damn sure the extended warranty hasn't expired for the five hundredth time."

The woman on the other line laughs, which I hadn't expected. "Good, you have a sense of humor, that'll make this much easier. But I'm not calling to sell you something. I'm calling to give you something."

"Jesus?" I ask, raising my eyebrows at Lainey. "Because I think he'd object to cold calls on principle."

My friend snorts and then flinches and covers her face, as if she can stuff the sound back in.

"No, but it's cute that you enjoy guessing games. I'm actually calling about your inheritance."

I nearly drop the phone but manage to keep hold of it, trying to swallow the feeling of unease creeping up my throat. "What are you talking about?"

"Your inheritance." There's a pause, then she says, "I'm bad at sharing shitty news in a soft way, so I'm just going to level with you. Your father died."

Now, I do drop the phone, my fingers turning slack in an instant. My whole body revolts against the notion, my stomach sinking, my limbs trembling, everything within me hot and cold and shocked as if I were zapped and frozen in the same instant. My dad can't be dead. He called me this morning to commiserate about my job loss and then gave me a five-minute lecture about eating bran. He's the only person who cares enough about me to give me stupid lectures. No, he can't be dead.

My whole body trembling, I glance at Lainey—or at least I try to. That damn DEATH card is still lying out on the coffee table, making me shake harder.

"What happened?" I say, my voice quavering, hot emotion pressing into me. No, no, no, this isn't happening. This can't be happening. "I talked to him just this morning. I—"

"Oh, sorry. Not that guy," says the woman on the phone, her voice muffled slightly by the rug. "Yeah, he's fine. I mean, probably. I'm talking about Richard Ricci. He's definitely not okay. He died about a week ago."

I pick up the phone, confused, panicky, and on edge. Relieved, too, but I have a strong urge to call my dad and hear his voice, the same way I did as a kid, after waking up from a nightmare about him dying. "I don't know any Richard Ricci. You must have the wrong number."

"I don't," Nicole says, sounding not the slightest bit fazed. "You're Claire Rainey. Five foot seven, blond with hazel eyes. Your mother is Lana Williams. You have an overly enthusiastic Instagram account, and you used to be the personal assistant to that orange woman who was on TV yesterday morning." Her laughter is like nails raking across my skin. "But something tells me you're not anymore. Seems to me you're pretty lucky I'm calling, actually."

"Who are you?" I ask in shock.

Lainey is practically thrumming with energy next to me, pointing at the tarot card as if a piece of cardboard could have brought on whatever this is.

"I'm the executor of Richard's will," the woman continues, "and he left you his house and a little chunk of change. You'll have to come to Marshall, North Carolina to check it out. There are some interesting terms that we can discuss when you get here."

"But why?"

"Weren't you listening?" she asks. "Dick was your father. I'm guessing your mother had a little fun on the side. It happens. From what I can tell, he had a lot of fun with a lot of people."

"This is some kind of scam," I snap, pissed and confused. I answered this call so I could feel like I had control over something, but I've completely lost control over everything. "You want to lure me to this Marshall place so you can kidnap me or put a gun to my head and make me enter all of my passwords."

"Do you have any money for me to steal?" Nicole asks, her tone derisive.

No.

"I'm not going to tell you that."

She sighs. "Talk to your adopt-i-dad. The closest city's Asheville. If you need help buying a plane ticket there, it can be covered by the inheritance." She snorts. "What am I talking about? Of course you need the money."

I have about five hundred questions for her, maybe a thousand. Especially about this man she claims was my father, which obviously must be impossible. I have a father. A father I adore. But I'm so baffled by her that I find myself asking again, "Who are you?"

She said she's the executor of this Richard's estate, but she's obviously no lawyer. Or at least I'm pretty sure a lawyer wouldn't talk like this.

"You'll find out soon enough," she says. Dead air hangs over the line for a moment before she adds, "I look forward to meeting you, Claire. I'll be in touch."

"But wait—"

When I look down, I see only my phone's wallpaper. She hung up.

"What the fuck?" I ask no one in particular. "She never even gave me her number."

"Look the guy up," Lainey says, her eyes wide. "Now."

So, I type his name into a search with shaking fingers, adding Marshall to the end. An obituary pops up from The News Record.

It says Richard Ricci died in an accident at age sixty-one, but it's not the article that commands my attention—it's the man's photo.

Despite both of us being blond, my dad and I have never looked alike. My mom used to joke about that when I was little, particularly because she and I didn't look much alike either. But the joke isn't funny anymore, because this guy, this guy who's already gone, does look like me. Our eyes are the exact same color, our brow lines are the same, and—

"Holy shit," Lainey says, giving me an appraising look. "Holy shit. He looks just like you did when you used the ‘guy' filter on Instagram."

She's right.

"What just happened?" I ask, my voice shaking as much as my fingers still are.

Lainey takes my hands and squeezes, staring into my eyes. "This, my friend, is what they call a game changer."