Chapter 1: Fake Money

Clara's POV

The rain started the moment the Greyhound pulled into Oak Grove.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window and watched the town materialize through the gray drizzle—a gas station, a diner with a flickering neon sign, a row of old buildings with peeling paint.

The bus slowed, rolled to a stop in front of what looked like an abandoned depot, and the driver announced the end of the line in the same flat tone he'd used for every stop since Pittsburgh.

I was the only one who got off.

He handed down my suitcase without a word—a battered thing with a broken wheel that scraped against the wet pavement—and pulled away before I'd even straightened up.

The rain wasn't heavy, just steady and cold, the kind that works its way through your jacket in the first five minutes and doesn't stop.

I stood there for a moment, backpack straps digging into my shoulders, the violin case bumping against my hip, and looked at the street in front of me.

Oak Grove, Pennsylvania. A town so small I could already see most of it from where I was standing.

I adjusted the straps and started walking.

Main Street was exactly what I'd expected from a town this size—maybe ten storefronts, half of them with the lights off.

A hardware store. A post office. A diner with a hand-lettered sign in the window advertising apple cider for three dollars a jug.

And near the end of the block, a general store called Morrison's, its windows decorated with plastic pumpkins and strings of orange lights for Halloween.

I stopped in front of it and stood there in the rain, working up the nerve.

The envelope in my backpack had a thousand dollars in it. Janice had thrown it at my feet three days ago, right after I'd threatened to go to the police, to her kids' preschool, to anyone who would listen.

A thousand dollars. It felt like a lot, until I thought about how far it actually had to stretch—school fees, groceries, whatever share of the bills Grandma Irene would let me pay. It had to last. I needed to make it last.

But I also needed to show up at her door with something. Not empty-handed. Not like a stray that had wandered in out of the rain.

I took a breath, pushed open the door, and went inside.

A man with gray hair and a flannel shirt stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper. He glanced up when I walked in, gave me a once-over and went back to his paper.

I found the fruit baskets near the back. Red apples, a few oranges, a small bunch of grapes. Twelve dollars.

I carried it to the counter, set it down, and pulled the envelope from my backpack. My fingers were still cold from the rain. I peeled off a twenty and slid it across the counter.

The man picked it up. Held it to the light above the register.

I watched his brow furrow, and an uneasy feeling crept over me.

Then he slapped the bill down on the counter.

"This is fake."

I froze. For a second, I thought I'd heard him wrong.

"What?"

"Counterfeit." He pushed it back toward me with two fingers, like he didn't want to touch it anymore. "Where'd you get this?"

"I—" My stomach dropped straight through the floor. "That's not possible. My stepmom gave it to me. It's for living expenses, she said—"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Kid, I've been running this store for thirty years. I know a fake bill when I see one. The paper's wrong—too smooth. No texture. The watermark's printed on, not embedded."

I was aware, suddenly, of two women near the canned goods aisle who had stopped pretending to shop. An older man by the door had turned to look. The store felt very small.

"I didn't know," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "I swear I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

One of the women said something under her breath. I caught the words young people and these days and felt heat flood my face even though I was already cold everywhere else.

I grabbed the bill off the counter, shoved it into my pocket, and walked out.

I didn't run. I wanted to. But I didn't.

I made it half a block before my legs stopped cooperating.

I ducked under the roof and sat down and tried to breathe normally.

It's fine. It was just one bill. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Janice didn't know either.

I pulled the envelope out of my backpack and set it on my knee.

Fifty twenties. A thousand dollars.

I picked up the first one. Held it up to the gray light coming through the shelter opening.

Too smooth. The watermark was blurry. The serial number ended in—

I checked the next one. Same serial number.

I checked another. Then another. And another.

Every single bill.

All fifty of them.

All fake.

Why? Why would they do this to me? Why?

My fingers tightened around the envelope. My throat closed, and for a second, I thought I was going to cry.

The rain drummed against the metal roof above me. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked twice and went quiet.

Janice had known. She'd given me fake money. She hadn't just wanted me gone. She'd wanted me to have nothing when I got here.

The injuries from three days ago still ached faintly.

That house was no longer somewhere I could go back to.