“Are you sure this is where we turn?” Emma scowled and craned her neck to see the next street sign. “I could have sworn we just went through this intersection.”
“Turn left.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re the expert here. I appreciate that. But there’s something I appreciate even more than expertise: accountability. So if I find out you’re leading me on a wild-goose chase—”
“Turn left.”
“—I’m going to throw you out the window.” She turned left and gasped. Sunny blue skies reflected off a lake filled with boats. A red-and-white seaplane took to the air, flying past the Space Needle and bending toward a snow-capped Mount Rainier. It was not what she expected.
After listening to hours of her mom’s gloom and doom, she’d expected Seattle to be more like a damp anarchist Thunderdome. But it was the most beautiful city she’d ever visited. In the past ten minutes, she’d glimpsed enough scenery to fill a lifetime of postcards.
Was that Lake Union glistening like a jewel? Or Lake Washington? Puget Sound? Elliott Bay? Were those rugged mountains the Cascades or the Olympics? Were those gigantic trees spruce or cedar? Maybe it was better not to know—to just take it all in.
She turned up the stereo. The chorus of “Shake it Off” swelled and made her heart thump with excitement. This was the last song on her playlist titled Jessie! She’d imagined it playing as she pulled into the driveway where her long-lost cousin would be waiting to welcome her back. First, she had to find the place.
“Take the exit on your right.”
“Seriously? I’m not even on the highway. How could I possibly exit?” She looked around frantically for anything that might pass for an exit to a GPS on the fritz. “Have you ever thought you might need to go in for a refresher course?”
“Take the exit now.”
“Some sort of continuing education for robots?” Emma eyed the window, wondering if she had it in her.
“Take the exit.”
“Okay. You’re dead.” She reached blindly toward the car’s cup holders, finding the smooth hard phone where she expected it. “You too, Taylor—I’m sorry. I still love you.”
But before she could shut down the Map and Music apps, the phone slipped from her fingers. It fell through the crack between her seat and the console, landing somewhere below her.
“I guess I should have tossed it out the window after all.” The loud music drowned her voice out. She hit the car stereo’s Power button, and the world went silent. Decisive action—that’s what you needed to get ahead these days. Fortune favored the bold. You made your own luck.
“Make a U-turn, then make another U-turn,” the disembodied voice called from beneath her.
“Is that your idea of a joke? You want me to go in circles?” She swerved into the nearest parking spot and slammed on the brakes. “You had one job, GPS lady. You blew it.”
She’d been in the city for an hour and was already crazy, yelling to herself in a car. She took a swig of day-old coffee from her travel mug. Dregs. Beneath the seat, her phone chimed, “You have arrived!”
This was all that stupid lawyer’s fault.
The courier had somehow found her broom-closet office at Oklahoma Polytechnic. She’d been informing a well-tanned sophomore that his once-in-a-lifetime trip to South Padre Island did not excuse him from the final—even if he did know the dean.
The letter was from Gruber and Gruber Associates, PLLC. It informed her with deep condolence that Coralee Barrow, her beloved aunt, had recently passed. Emma, along with her cousin Jessie, was to inherit Ms. Barrow’s house in Seattle’s historic Undertown neighborhood.
After a decidedly unsatisfying tête-à-tête with the dean, she’d packed an overnight bag, gassed up the Camry, and headed northwest.
The letter was hand-scribed on fine paper. It included a map, hand drawn on vellum, and a small, dark brass key. But it was only this morning, somewhere outside Snoqualmie, that Emma realized what was missing: the address.
She’d driven for three days to see a house, and she didn’t have the address.
Jessie didn’t answer her phone. Nor did the lawyers. It was Sunday, after all. So she improvised, guesstimating the house’s location and dropping a pin on her phone’s map. That had made her phone go insane.
She’d have to figure out which Gruber wrote that letter and give them a piece of her mind.
Emma grabbed the canvas tote she used as a purse and got out of the car. She stretched her legs and looked around at the beautiful craftsman houses, their yards carelessly overflowing with red poppies, purple irises, and pink azaleas.
She merged with the lazy flow of pedestrians, cyclists, joggers. As she walked, she tried to desperately to remember if she had been here as a child.
She’d read in Scientific American that memory needed to be reinforced, renewed. But after… whatever happened between her mom and aunt, they’d never been back. Any memories she had were gone.
Would her cousin just feel like another stranger?
Emma’s phone chimed. It was a new message from Jessie.
I’m at the house. Looking forward to catching up and diving into the family business!
Emma replied, asking if she could get an address and—hold up—the family business? What the heck was that?
The family business was not part of her plan. She had a schedule to keep.
She’d catch up with Jessie, spend a week or two pretending she was still in her twenties, eat brunch, find an agent to sell the house, and be back in plenty of time to submit more job applications for the fall.
The life of an itinerant adjunct professor of chemistry was not a glamorous one. Nor was it stable or lucrative or prestigious. But it had its perks.
She could use the lab to finish her research. Once it was published, she’d have a chance—a real chance—of becoming Associate Professor Emma Day. With that kind of job, you could settle down, make friends, and afford a small apartment without begging from your mom.
It was all laid out in her five-year plan. Jessie didn’t know about that though. They’d work it out later.
Right now Emma was more concerned with getting out of the sun, which beat down cruelly. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. Her hair stuck to her neck, began to itch.
Holding the map between her teeth, she pulled her hair back, twisting it into a messy bun and securing it with a lint-covered hair tie from the depths of her purse.
Sighing with relief, she took her bearings and found herself standing in front of a dollhouse.
No, it wasn’t a dollhouse. It was a replica in miniature of the beautifully restored hunter-green craftsman that stood before her.
The miniature house had a latch on one side and hinges on the other. A placard declared that this was a Wee Free Library.
Should she? Glancing left and right, she saw that nobody was paying her any attention. She unfastened the latch and opened it.
Inside was a bookshelf filled with old books. They smelled spicy, like dry leaves in the fall. She ran her index finger over each book’s spine and landed on a favorite: Agatha Christie’s Murder at the Vicarage. After such a long trip, she could use some distraction. She slipped the paperback into her bag.
If she believed the Grubers’ map, she was closing in on her destination. The neighborhood’s entrance was only a few blocks ahead, and from there it was a short walk to the house. She quickened her pace, wondering what she would say when she saw Jessie. A pang of doubt lanced her heart. Should she have dressed nicer? Did she look tired? Should she have worn makeup?
A gray steel railing blocked her path. The view was also blocked by an enormous blackberry bramble, its thorny green vines weighed down with ripe, bruise-purple fruit. It felt like standing on a cliff overlooking a valley far below. Undertown must be down there somewhere.
The map placed Undertown just beyond the railing, but it gave no hint of how to get there.
Things could be worse. It was obviously blackberry season. She reached out one index finger and touched a thorn. The sharpness sent an electric tingle down her spine.
She squeezed a ripe blackberry. Its skin burst, leaving a juicy red stain on her finger. She picked and ate it. The warm berry dissolved in her mouth, sweet and tart. Not a bad place for a little rest.
She sat on the sidewalk, pulled out the Agatha Christie novel, and began to read while absentmindedly picking and eating blackberries. The sky was a clear blue. Though she couldn’t see the water, a breeze brought its fresh scent to her. Distant seagulls cawed. Far-off ships’ horns sounded. For the first time since leaving Oklahoma, she exhaled. That was probably why she failed to notice the man standing beside her.
Emma scrambled to her feet. The book was splayed open in her right hand. Her bag hung awkwardly at her elbow.
“Hello, Miss—”
“No, thank you!” She pushed past him, bag swinging awkwardly.
Didn’t Mom warn her about Seattle? About the riots? About the lawlessness? She staggered past an old woman in a wide-brimmed hat pulling weeds from her front yard vegetable garden.
The pictures Mom sent showed boarded-up shops everywhere. She impulsively took a right in front of a small toy store with several kites shaped like goldfish flapping joyfully in the breeze.
And now? She dropped her guard for one minute, and a total stranger had… stood next to her.
That didn’t mean he was a psycho, did it? It wasn’t like he was dripping blood or anything. His shoes were nice—burgundy wingtips. Could serial killers wear wingtips?
No, he probably wasn’t a psycho. She’d just had too much gas-station coffee. Her nerves were shot.
She looked over her shoulder. The man was following her. She hiked her purse onto her shoulder and walked faster.
“Miss—”
“I said no, thank you!”
Was he gaining on her? He was walking so fast that his pocket watch had fallen out and bounced with each step he took.
His… pocket watch?
Wait a second. Why was Emma Day, PhD—a grown woman with a five-year plan—letting herself be chased by a man so overwhelmingly pretentious that he carried a pocket watch?
She wheeled around to confront him.
“I told you, I’m not interested!”
His face was surprisingly close to hers.
“I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Pocket Watch—”
“Miss Day?”
“It is extremely rude to—”
“Miss Emma Day?”
This wasn’t going how she planned.
“I apologize for startling you. I came to meet you.” He stepped back and bowed. “Dashiell Gruber, at your service.”
She sized him up. Dashiell Gruber was tall and handsome. He had dark, wavy hair. His clothes made it hard to tell his age. He was actually wearing suspenders—red ones—with a white linen shirt, flannel slacks, and wingtips.
Emma felt suddenly underdressed in her road-trip outfit: a wrinkled duster, T-shirt, leggings. Her hair was in a messy bun.
“At my service?”
“I knew that you would be arriving, and I wanted to ensure there was no trouble finding your aunt’s property,” he replied.
“Are you the Gruber that wrote the letter?” She pulled it from her bag and held it like a cudgel. “There’s no address! I’ve been driving in circles.”
“I’m not certain it would have helped. In any case, I’m here to escort you. Shall we go?”
“Why?”
“So you can… go there?” Dashiell raised one eyebrow.
“No, I don’t mean that. Why would an address not have helped?”
“Ah. You’ve no doubt heard the phrase ‘all roads lead to Rome’?”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see, Undertown is not Rome.”
If he was a serial killer, he was definitely playing a long game—a long, weird game. But she decided, for the moment, to trust him.
“Look, I’m… sorry,” she said. “I’ve been driving for three days. I’m tired, and the address thing really threw me for a loop. It’s nice of you to give up part of your weekend to come play tour guide.”
“It’s no trouble. You were pretty close to the entrance earlier.” He gestured to a break in the blackberry bramble where a set of worn concrete stairs led down.
“I could have sworn I looked here. How far down do the stairs go?”
“All the way to the bottom. Let’s go.”
The vines made a corridor to the left and right. Thorny runners reached into the path and snagged on her thin leggings. Overripe berries brushed against her shirt and left purple blotches. Ahead of her, Dashiell seemed clean and unscathed. His white shirt was spotless.
“This doesn’t add up,” she said. “Why is it hard to get here?”
Dashiell glanced back. “What do you know about Undertown?”
“Not much. It’s… a neighborhood in Seattle?”
“You see, it’s not.”
“I literally just drove by the Space Needle.”
“We’re more of a small village nestled in the heart of Seattle.”
“And you sound more like a Realtor than a lawyer.”
“I mean it literally. In the 1800s, before Seattle existed, its neighborhoods were independent settlements. When they decided to unite and form a city, Undertown declined to sign the charter. Seattle eventually swallowed us, and Undertown became a walled garden.”
“How is that possible?”
“Obstinance. And a very complicated network of contracts, covenants, and easements. I can show them to you sometime. They’re fascinating. They keep my family’s firm in business.”
“Sounds fun.”
A light ahead signaled the end of their descent. Emma found herself in front of a white wooden arbor covered in vines.
Dashiell stepped through it and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Undertown.”
The arbor pathway led through a narrow park planted with ancient, moss-covered cherry trees. Behind them was the great crescent wall of blackberry vines. Ahead was a broad cobblestone street lined with shops and filled with people casually enjoying their weekend.
“It’s… beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? Wait until you see—”
Something ran in front of them, stopped, and backtracked. It was, Emma realized, the strangest-looking cat she’d ever seen.
It was enormous for a house cat. Its long fur was mottled black and brown. It had a snaggletooth, a notched ear, and a scar across its face. One green and one yellow eye looked up at them.
Dashiell reached up to doff his hat, realized he wasn’t wearing one, and ended up in an awkward salute.
The cat nodded its head and meowed crisply. Then its ears twitched, and it bolted away.
“I think that went well.”
“What? The cat—”
“Not just a cat. The Captain. I wonder what business brings him out this morning. You know, your aunt had a special connection with the Captain.”
“He was my aunt’s cat?”
“Oh no. He’s definitely his own cat. But he approves of you!”
“What—?”
“Cora’s house is this way. It’s not the quickest route, but it’s the safest. The road we’re on is called Main these days. It runs in a loop around Undertown. If you walk long enough, you end up back where you started.”
“Why do I need a cat’s approval?”
“Just remember to stay on Main, and you’ll be safe.” He gestured to an alley that led behind one of the shops. “You might be tempted to cut through the core. Don’t. Even longtime residents are occasionally lost there.”
“Dashiell! Why do I need a cat’s approval?”
“How much do you know about your aunt Cora?”
“Almost nothing. My mom left town when I was four, and we never talked about her.”
“That makes things difficult. I thought your mother would have prepared you.”
“For what?”
“Cora, like most of the Barrow women, was a… polarizing figure. You may find that people have certain expectations.”
“Expectations? I’m here to meet Jessie, have brunch, sell the house, and go back home.”
“Sell? You mean you’re not staying?”
“Of course I’m not staying! It’s not that I don’t appreciate being shown around the Garden of Eden, but I have a career. I have a life!” She thought of the pile of unfilled job applications.
“Of course.”
They walked in silence, past a yarn store, which was closed for Sunday, and a grocery store that wasn’t. Emma checked her phone. Still no word from Jessie.
“Service is spotty down here,” Dashiell said.
“My mom never talked to Aunt Cora, Jessie, or anyone on that side of the family. She burned those bridges when I was a kid.” Emma breathed in sharply. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out why my aunt would give me her house. Why would she care about me?”
Dashiell turned to her and smiled. “She did care. She—”
“Is that her? It must be her!” the woman before them yelped, running over to them. She was an older woman, impeccably dressed, who had been on a major shopping spree from the number of bags she carried.
“You are the spitting image of our dear Coralee—may she rest in peace—are you not? Who are you? Estranged sister? Too young. Secret daughter? Too old. You look like a niece. Are you the estranged niece? Ella? Eryn?”
“Emma,” she said.
“What a pleasure to meet you! You know, we wondered why there wasn’t more family at the funeral.”
“This is Deidre, the town gossip,” Dashiell said.
“She can hear you!” Emma said.
“Hear who? Oh yes, you are indeed a Barrow.”
Emma plastered on a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Deidre.”
Deidre raised one eyebrow.
“Yes, I am the niece. The estranged one. On my way to meet the unestranged niece to rectify our estrangement. I didn’t go to the funeral because nobody told me.” Emma had an inkling that the direct approach was best with Deidre.
“A heartwarming story.” Deidre smiled and touched her own heart. “It’s plain as day you’ll make our Coralee proud, wherever she is, beyond the veil and whatnot.”
“Thank you?”
“By the way, dear, I run a little shop. Please do look me up when you’re ready to do something about all of… this.” She handed Emma her card, then ran off to find another victim.
“The Tigress?” Emma read, putting the card in her purse and turning to Dashiell. “Surely you see how this is weird. I’m going to make my dead aunt proud?”
“We prefer ‘passed on.’”
“And what, for the love of God, is the family business?”
They stopped in front of an enormous pink house. Paint was flaking off the rotten wood siding. The front porch had been walled in and converted to a boxy plate-glass storefront.
Emma’s eyes were drawn to a large neon sign hanging in the window.
“No.” She backed away.
“Here it is.”
“This can’t be it.”
The neon sign was off, but she could read it easily enough. In its middle was a circle, surrounded by stars and moons. Underneath, a single word was spelled out in bold, unmistakable letters: Psychic.
“I don’t know what you think I am, but I will tell you. I am a scientist. I do not believe in tarot cards and tea leaves. I am not the kind of person to be involved in any way with… this!” She gestured wildly at the storefront.
Dashiell smiled. “You sound just like her.”
“Don’t you—?”
The door opened, and a shriveled old man stepped out. “You the new owner? Well, are you?”
“One of them?”
“Wonderful.” He shoved a manila envelope into her chest and barreled past. “You’ve been served,” he called over his shoulder. He walked one house over, unlocked the front door and slammed it behind him.
“At least the neighbors are nice,” she said, looking at the envelope. Here she was on familiar ground. She was used to randomly hostile men.
“Mr. Beyer and Cora were not on the best of terms.”
The door chimed as they entered.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” a woman said, closing her compact and putting it in her purse. “I’ve been waiting all morning. You are her, aren’t you?”
