Page 219 of By A Thread

I could just make out my real estate agent’s name on the dimly lit screen.

“Bill, hey,” I said.

“We’ve got a full-priced cash offer on the table, Ally,” Bill said in an excited rush.

I stopped in my tracks and shook my head to quiet the ringing in my ears. I was dreaming this whole day. I was going to wake up on my stupid twin bed and be devastated any moment now. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Full-priced cash offer,” he said. “They want to close by the end of the week. I know it’s short notice, but—”

“Accept it. Oh my God. Accept it!” I said, dancing a circle on the sidewalk. Then I froze, a terrible thought stealing into my brain. “Wait a minute. Tell me the buyer isn’t Dominic Russo.”

“Who? No. It’s not even a person. It’s a trust. The buyer’s agent said the buyer fell in love with the house.”

“They did?” I whispered.

“Actually the email said fell in love in the house, but that was a typo. So you’re going to need to start packing.”

There wasn’t much to pack. A couch and a gym bag of dance clothes and work uniforms. The extent of my earthly possessions. But it was better to start fresh without a lot of baggage.

72

Ally

Things kept happening. Good things.

On Tuesday, the Foxwood police contacted me to tell me my weasel of a contractor had been arrested for fraud, theft, and some other charges that sounded like general douchery. Apparently I hadn’t been the only client he’d skipped out on.

The detective wasn’t confident that I’d get my money back, but she had recovered my father’s pocket watch that the guy had helped himself to.

On Thursday, I got an email from a design firm in Manhattan. They’d seen my work inLabelandsomehow got a direct line to Dalessandra, who sang my praises. They wanted to know if I was interested in a job doing design work.

Friday was bittersweet goodness. The closing on my father’s house went off without a hitch. The buyers signed over power of attorney to their agent, so I didn’t get to meet them. Over a sun-dappled oak table, I traded keys for a check that would not only keep my father in Goodwin Childers for the next several years but would rebuild some of my own savings and clear my debt to Dominic.

I swung by the bank and deposited the check before anyone could change their minds. Then I wrote out a check for every dime that I owed Dominic Russo, dropped it in the mail, and treated myself to a Lyft to Mrs. Grosu’s. I was staying in her guest room for a few days until I could figure out my next move.

I was also hoping to get a glimpse of the new buyers next door.

Halfway to Mrs. Grosu’s in a spotless Prius, my phone gave one actual ring and then a half-hearted vibration. It was aLabeloffice number. I hesitated. I’d ignored all calls for the last month, afraid it would be Dominic. Afraid it wouldn’t be.

I was so tired of being afraid. I was so tired of missing him.

“Hello?”

“Ally, it’s Jasmine from HR,” the caller announced briskly.

Grumpy Jasmine, bad picture taker.

“Hi,” I said.

“I’m calling about where to send your last paycheck.”

I was too sad, too depressed, to get excited about money I’d forgotten about.

“Oh, sure,” I said and rattled off Mrs. Grosu’s address.

“Great,” she said. “By the way, I have some information you might find interesting.”

I doubted that very much.