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Luck? Maybe. Or maybe?—

No. I don't finish that thought. Because the alternative would mean someone is watching. And that would make this something else entirely. I hang up with Annette and stare at my locker. The red leather glows even in the dim light. I should sell it. I probably will. But when I lift it and sling it over my shoulder, a shiver runs through me. And I can't tell if it's excitement. Or warning.

Mom is waiting for me when I get home. "What took you so long?"

I look at my watch. I'm only half an hour later than usual. "I went to the grocery store to pick up dinner. I thought you might like some ham and sauerkraut? I even got the German dumplings you like."

Mom hasn't been eating again lately. She's already underweight. A hundred and twenty pounds at five foot five.

"My stomach has been acting up again. I can't eat for three days. You know how that goes."

I sigh. I do. Mom is convinced she has Gastritis. The latest PA we've seen,call me Matthew, has been a real sweetheart. He's been trying everything to find out why Mom is feelingso bad. That's her thing.I don't feel good. I feel bad. I feel off. That's all she can ever say. No stomach pain. No dizziness. No fever, cough, or runny nose. No headache.Just weak.Just off. But all his tests always come back negative.

Mom is forty-five, feeling and acting like she's ninety-five. Matthew said her blood pressure is a little elevated, but her blood work is okay for someone her age. Nothing alarming. Her Cholesterol is slightly elevated—she won't take statins—her kidney function is off by a few points—also nothing alarming, she just needs to drink more. They've done scans, ultrasounds, biopsies, X-rays, and drawn blood like there is no tomorrow, and the results are all the same: nothing. She's healthy as a horse.

"Well, why don't you go lie down, Mom? I'll make you some oatmeal."

She huffs. "You know I can't have milk, and that stuff tastes horrible with water."

I put the groceries on the counter. Behind her back, I roll my eyes. I love her. She's my mom. But some days she's just… too much. When she's like this, it feels like she's sucking the energy right out of my body.

My phone rings. "Your car is ready, Mrs. Hale."

"Oh, thank God." I've been taking Pete's for two days. The poor man has been catching rides with his coworker. "What was wrong?"

"It needed a new alternator, like we talked about."

Shit. He did mention that. But that's… a few thousand dollars. We can't just pay that. Pete will have a coronary not being consulted. The garage should have called me. Or…

"Did you talk to Pete?" I ask because that's the only explanation I can think of. My husband would have had to have authorized this. Right?

"No worries, Mrs. Hale, you're our ten thousandth customer since we opened; the repairs and replacements are on us. Your Altima is as good as new. Stevie will drive it by later."

I blink. What? "What?"

"The boss said you're our ten thousandth customer, so the repair was on us." He repeats like I didn't hear him the first time.

"That can't be?—"

"Have a nice day, Mrs. Hale." He hangs up, and I stare at the phone.

"Bad news?" Mom asks.

I shake my head. "No, not really, I guess I won a car repair."

"Like the purse?" Mom's suspicion radar moves up into the red. "Like you not getting a ticket when you were arrested?"

I shrug. "All good things come in three, right?"

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

"There's someone at the door," Mom observes.

That must be my car. Fishing a five from my Gucci wallet, I run to the door. It's not Stevie. It's a woman in one of those casino outfits, holding up two garment bags and an envelope. "Congratulations. You've won our contest and are invited to The Dominion for the annual masked ball,The Obsidian Masquerade."

"What?" It seems I've been asking that a lot lately.

The woman smiles happily, holding out the garment bags, "It's all paid for. You also get a full weekend at the royal suite at the Dominion."