Lucky(30)

“You did a good job, young lady,” said Benson. He put down the newspaper he was reading. She caught a headline: MULTI MILLIONS LOTTERY TICKET—BIGGEST PAYOUT IN U.S. HISTORY—BOUGHT IN IDAHO STILL UNCLAIMED. Then he handed her a room key. “You’ll stay in room one-oh-six,” he said. “Has the nicest view—of the trees, not the parking lot. And we won’t hear of accepting any payment. You can stay as long as you need to.”

Lucky decided then and there that she wasn’t going to take anything from these strangers, nothing more than their kindness. It would be easy—and it would be wrong. And nothing from their customers, either, even though memorizing and recording the credit card numbers of truckers who passed through had crossed her mind many times that day.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the key. It was cool in her hand. It was the very thing she had wanted: a room to herself, somewhere safe to sleep. And she hadn’t had to do anything she hated herself for to get it.

“Happy to do it, Ruby. See you in the morning.”



* * *




Days passed, and the routine at the diner became pleasant. Lucky now knew everything about the business, from the safe combination, to the passwords for the bank accounts, to where Arlene and Benson set their wallets down during the day. And the only thing this made her feel was important.

She went to the library most afternoons. She created a fake social media profile and typed in names. Marisol Reyes was nowhere to be found. Priscilla Lachaise was, though. She had a Facebook profile and it led Lucky to a page for the shelter in Fresno, with a strangely cutesy “Priscilla’s Place” logo that made Lucky angry just looking at it. Who knew what scams Priscilla was running under the guise of reform? Lucky clicked through the photos of the shelter for a while, feeling increasingly skeptical as she did. Priscilla was a con artist through and through. People like that didn’t change, in Lucky’s experience. She was doing a hell of a job of pretending, though. Lucky had to give her that. She was a master.

And Cary had been her protégé. He was a master, too.

Lucky clicked out of the Priscilla’s Place page and typed a different name into the search bar: “Darla Dixon.” A private profile came up. Darla was smiling, holding a young child. Lucky squinted at the photo, but it was too small for her to get a good look at. She typed in “Stephanie Dixon,” but her page was private, too. However, her “About” information tab led to a business profile. Lucky clicked through. Stephanie Dixon-Carr, Realtor. She lived in Seattle now, not Bellevue.

Lucky remembered that Steph had wanted to be a veterinarian. She didn’t know Stephanie, the grown-up version of her old friend. Not at all. This woman in the photos she was looking at was a stranger.

Lucky took out her notepad and made a few notes, then logged off. If Stephanie was a stranger, that was going to make it easier to face her—if that was what she decided to do.



* * *




Lucky told Arlene and Benson she was going to be leaving. “Where’s that you’re going, then?” Benson asked, looking a little sad. “To see that friend in Bellevue you mentioned the other day?”

“Yeah,” Lucky said. “She’s in Seattle now. I’m going to go look her up.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Arlene said. “Benson and I were worrying about where you’d get off to next—but if you’re going to see a friend, that’s a good thing. You keep in touch, please. And you come straight back here if it doesn’t work out with the friend.”

At the end of her last day, Arlene pressed an extra hundred-dollar bill into Lucky’s hand and whispered for her to take care of herself. Lucky almost handed the money back—but she needed it too badly.

She asked for their mailing address and wrote it down carefully on her list of people to pay back.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” she promised. “One day, when everything is different. I promise.”

Then she went outside to wait for the bus.



* * *




When Lucky got to Seattle, almost six hours later, it was late afternoon. She found a consignment shop and chose her outfit carefully: black trousers; soft, subtly metallic leather flats; and a little clutch to replace her belt pack. She also found a costume shop that sold colored contacts. She chose blue. Her eyes were still distinctive, but in a different way now.

She hid her backpack in a bush down the street from the house she was going to. The lottery ticket was taped inside her shirt. She had put her small collection of IDs and what little money she had left into her pockets, bra, and purse. If the backpack was taken, so be it. But she hoped not.

She approached the house and stood in front of it for a moment. What if Steph recognized her right away, saw through her potential home-buyer facade? Lucky blinked several times against the gritty feeling of the contact lenses. She climbed the stairs and walked through the front door.

Several couples, small children in tow, were trailing out the door. Lucky started to take off her shoes.

“It’s all right, leave your shoes on.”

Lucky looked up at a woman with a sleek brown bob and a welcoming smile. She was holding out a hand for Lucky to take. “I’m Stephanie, the real estate agent.”

“Hi, Stephanie,” Lucky said. “Nice to meet you. This is a lovely house.” She turned away from her quickly, her heart pounding fast and hard.