Chapter three

I had two dollars, twelve days, and exactly one plot hole worth exploiting.

"Seven, fourteen, twenty-two, thirty-one, thirty-eight, forty," I told the clerk.

He frowned at the slip of paper in my hand. "You don't want a quick pick?"

"No."

"Those are very specific numbers, ma'am."

"I'm a very specific person."

"You know the odds are one in three hundred million?"

"Then I'll be a rounding error." I slid my last two dollars across the counter. "Please hurry. Sales close in four minutes."

He sighed and printed the ticket. "Good luck."

I almost laughed. The last voice to say that to me had come with a survival rate of 0.03 percent.

I checked the ticket twice. The author had used these numbers in five different chapters and never once let anyone claim the prize. Tonight, somebody would. I had thirty-seven cents left in the world.

I spent the evening in the diner next door, nursing a coffee that the waitress had put in front of me without asking. Her name tag said DEE.

"Rough day?" she asked.

"I got divorced over salmon."

"Then the pie's on the house."

At eight o'clock, the TV above the counter flickered to life. "And now, tonight's jackpot numbers..."

"Seven," the announcer said.

I put down my fork.

"Fourteen. Twenty-two. Thirty-one."

Dee stopped pouring.

"Thirty-eight. Forty."

I looked at the ticket. I looked at the screen. I looked at the ticket again.

"One point four million dollars," the announcer said. "Congratulations to whoever is holding that ticket!"

Dee looked at me. I looked at Dee.

"The pie's still on the house," she whispered.

"Thank you," I whispered back. "I'm going to tip you very badly tonight and very well later."

SURVIVAL RATE: 0.4% → 2.2%

I slept in the corner booth, and Dee brought me a blanket.

In the morning, Vera's phone had fourteen new texts. Thirteen were from friends who had heard what happened and wanted every detail. The fourteenth was from Damon's lawyer.

Mr. Lockhart is prepared to offer twenty thousand dollars in exchange for your signature on a confidentiality agreement.

Mr. Lockhart can keep his twenty thousand, I wrote back. I'll keep my silence free of charge.

At the lottery office, a tired man in a green tie slid a check across his desk. After taxes, it was nine hundred and eighty thousand dollars, which was close enough to a million.

"Would you like your photo in the paper, Ms. Lockhart?" he asked.

"No."

"I'm afraid it's the law. Winners' names are public." He gave me a sympathetic smile. "People will find you."

"I'm sure they will."

On my way out, I stopped by the diner and left an envelope next to the ketchup. It held five thousand dollars in cash.

"What's this?" Dee asked.

"A very good tip."

"I have a daughter in nursing school," Dee said slowly. "I'm not going to cry in front of the ketchup."

"Cry later," I said. "And tell her the pie was my idea."

The bank manager came out of his glass office before I even reached the counter. Vera's body knew him: I felt a cold spot in my stomach. Last spring, he had told her that he couldn't open a savings account in her name without her husband's signature.

"Mrs. Lockhart! What a pleasure. We'd love to discuss wealth management."

"It's Ms. Hale," I said. "I'd like to open an account in my own name. Nobody's signature but mine."

His smile stuck in place. "Of course. Absolutely."

"Vera?"

I knew that voice. Margaret Lockhart was standing in the line behind me, wearing a cream coat and her own pearls. She looked at my wrinkled dress and my messy hair.

"Still in yesterday's clothes," she said. "How sad. Have you come to beg the bank for a loan?"

"Something like that."

The manager stepped between us. "Ms. Hale, may I take your coat? Please come into my office. Would you like coffee, or champagne?"

Margaret's smile froze. "Ms. Hale? She had two dollars yesterday."

"Yesterday's balance isn't today's, Mrs. Lockhart," the manager said, without looking at her. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn."

I smiled at her over my shoulder. "Take your time, Margaret. I'm not in a hurry anymore."

Behind me, I heard her say "Excuse me?" twice, and then a third time, louder, to nobody.

After that, I took a taxi to Maple Street. There was one thing I wanted more than noodles.

The Hale house was a brick colonial with a wreath on the front door, and Vera's key still worked. In the living room, her stepmother Gail and her stepsister Tiffany sat in front of the TV. Gail was wearing a string of pearls.

I knew those pearls. They were in the photo on the mantel, around the neck of a woman who looked like Vera. Gail had turned the frame face-down. On the back, in faded ink, someone had written: Helen Hale, for my Vera's wedding.

"Well," Gail said, without getting up. "The Lockharts called. Divorced and thrown out. I told you that you'd embarrass this family. You can sleep in the garage."

"Mom said you'd come back begging," Tiffany added.

"I'm not begging," I said. "I'm collecting."

"Collecting what?"

"Those." I pointed at Gail's neck.

Her hand flew to the pearls. "These are mine. Your father gave them to me."

"My father gave you a lot of things, but he never gave you those. My mother left them to me. Take them off."

"After everything we've done for you! How dare you—" Her hand swung toward my face.

I caught her wrist. "I wouldn't."

I held up my phone with the newspaper article open. Local woman wins $1.4 million. Vera Lockhart, 27.

"I can ask nicely," I said. "Or I can explain to the Lockharts, your church group, and everyone who has ever eaten your potluck casserole why you've been wearing a dead woman's pearls."

Tiffany snatched my phone. "Mom, she won the lottery!"

Gail's face went through three expressions in two seconds. The last one was a smile. "Oh, darling. You must be exhausted. Of course you're family. Sit down, I'll make some tea."

"The pearls," I said.

Her hands shook as she unclasped them.

"Mom said they'd be mine!" Tiffany protested.

"Your mom says a lot of things," I said. The pearls were still warm from Gail's skin, and I wanted to scrub them. "Where's Dad?"

"Upstairs," Gail said. "Resting."

I went up. Walter Hale was sitting in his study with the door half open, and I could tell he had heard everything. He looked at me, then down at his desk.

"Vera, please," he said. "We've all had a hard year."

"I've had a hard life, Dad," I said. "You married a thief."

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Some people never say anything.

I closed the door gently on my way out.

I didn't cry in the taxi. I cried a little in the stairwell of the wholesaler's office, holding the pearls in my fist, for a woman I had once called cannon fodder in a review.

That afternoon, I walked into Tri-County Wholesale with a cashier's check and a notebook. At the loading dock, I told a man named Mack what I needed.

"Six hundred cases of instant noodles."

Noodles first.

Eleven days.