Page 1

Chapter One

Archer

Some men,when dealing with a not-quite-midlife crisis, might take an extended vacation. Maybe consider a complete career change. They might buy a new car. Start a new relationship. Take up a hobby, like juggling. Or BASE jumping.

Me? I buy a building in a town nowhere near the source of my crisis.

“And this is our basement.” Galentine Valencia, the previous owner, does a little spin, arms outstretched as though she’s in the middle of a flowering field rather than a dark, dusty basement. Her long floral dress flutters around her, and the costume jewelry jangles on her wrists like a jester’s bells. Her bright red pouf of hair and sparkly green eyeshadow only add to the effect.

She has the look of a woman who grew up in musical theater.

I survey the large, low-ceilinged space where we’re currently standing, which smells a little like sardines and musty newspapers. Thankfully, I see no sign of either.

“Itisa basement,” I agree. I don’t have any other words to add.

The harder I frown, the wider Galentine smiles.

I’ve been trailing her around The Serendipity for the last half hour, getting a tour I didn’t ask for filled with commentary as colorful as her outfit and personal stories—both of which I could do without. If Bellamy, the CEO of my company and my closest friend, had arrived on time, he would be the one listening as Galentine prattles on with her unamusing anecdotes. He’d probably even enjoy them. Then he’d fill me in on what I need to know without all the extra fluff I’m getting now.

But Bellamy isn’t here, which means I’m trying to listen politely while fighting off my mounting frustration. I calm myself by making silent calculations about just how much work and time The Serendipity will require.

Because I didn’t just buy a building—I bought a historic apartment building in need of a massive overhaul.

The Serendipity isn’t in bad shape structurally. Honestly, that would be an easier fix. But the early-1900s college-dormitory-turned-apartment-building has great bones and has been exceptionally maintained. It is the embodiment of the clichéthey don’t build them like they used to.

I might prefer more modern, clean architecture, but even I can appreciate the brick exterior, elaborate scrollwork along the cornices, and the porch with wide cement steps reminiscent of a New York brownstone.

Inside, the building has been equally well-preserved, with original hardwood floors, high coffered ceilings, and thick crown molding. Even the renovations done years ago to transform the small dorm rooms into full-sized apartments were done almost seamlessly.

No, the overhaul isn’t needed for the building itself but in terms of its general operation.Overhaulmight be too small a word. The amount of work it will take to get this place profitable will require my entire focus in the coming months. Profit seems to be an unfamiliar word to Galentine.

For a few decades now, Galentine has been running The Serendipity less like an apartment building and more like a charity or nonprofit organization. Certainly, few—if any—profits are being made. I suspect when I actually dig into the books, which I opted not to do before making my hasty offer, I’ll find that it’s been operating at a significant loss.

My father would have called my deferred investigation a thoroughlyunconscionablechoice, the purchase itselffrivolous, but thankfully, I only have echoes of his biting words in my head. No more surprise visits to my office with unsolicited performance reviews. And it’s easy to avoid his phone calls since I changed my number. He still tries through his lawyers or through Bellamy, but he’s also busy preparing his defense against the variety of financial crimes he apparently was committing for years.

So, no—I don’t need my father’s advice.

Even if what he’d say about this might ring true. This is a much bigger undertaking than I realized. On the plus side, its magnitude will provide maximum distraction for me at a time when I can really use it.

“The laundry room is this way,” Galentine says. “Back in the dorm days, it used to be coin-operated, but I took care of that.” She laughs.

Which I assume means now the use of the laundry facilities is completely free for residents at the expense of—well, nowme.

“And over here, there’s a large storage facility?—”

“Storage for whom?” I ask.

“Residents, of course.”

“And what do they store here?”

“Oh, you know.” She waves a hand. “Odds and ends.”

“Show me.”

She leads me to a series of spaces separated by chain-link partitions and padlocked gates. Each numbered unitcorresponds to one of the apartments in the four floors above our heads. Most are packed floor-to-ceiling with things better suited for a dumpster: boxes, bicycles, basketball hoops. I startle, thinking I see a person deep in the shadows of one unit, but when I squint, it’s only a seamstress’s dress form. I think.

So. Much. Junk.