Chapter 1

Monday, July 14, 2025

Flagstone, Nevada

Lindsay Anastacio wasn’t here to find salvation. She was here to sell it.

Holy smokes, this is it. This is the house. She toed her sneakers against the cement curb, eyes fixed tight as she took in the unassuming, two-story home before her. Okay, you’re here. You’re actually here. Her mouth was dry and sweat prickled her chest as she contemplated what would soon be her new reality. You’re gonna be the biggest disgrace in family history. You know that, right? Lindsay lifted her palm and pressed it to her chest, covering the cross and rosary beads within as if to shield them from the countless atrocities that awaited inside those walls. Her right foot twitched once, twice; then she buried them deep inside her backpack. So be it.

Everything looked identical to the online photographs she’d memorized over the past nine months. Nestled along the main artery through town and baking in the harsh desert sun, the house looked normal, almost stubbornly so, despite the damaged neon sign overhead screaming otherwise.

But this house represented all the things Lindsay had been taught to avoid while growing up as a Catholic deacon’s daughter. If Dad were here now, he’d flip out and insist she return home this very instant, claiming that what happened in places like this was dehumanizing and even life-threatening.

Don’t do this. Save yourself!

But Lindsay ignored her conscience.

Again.

Her father preached salvation to the Citronelle faithful every Sunday morning. But here in Flagstone, Lindsay planned to offer it to strangers on her back.

“Okay. Okay, just–” Whispered words dissolved as she peered at her cell phone, painting her lips with cherry-red liner that blazed like hellfire. You look fine. Hot, even. Hey, stop shaking. Her lips met and shifted, the gloss spreading into a lustrous sheen. Be confident. You got this. Lindsay’s fingers coiled inward as she counted her breaths. Four shucks in, four out. You want your independence, don’t you? Well, here it is. Go get it.

Her jaw ticked as she slung her backpack over a shoulder and trudged across the walkway, gaze transfixed on the entrance. Be strong. No turning back now. She swiped her brow with her palm. No more daddy’s little angel. Time to spread those wings and fly straight to Hell. She gave her too-short shorts a quick downward tug, her little pink tongue flicking out and sweeping her upper lip. Or better yet, those legs.

Lindsay’s sudden grin crumbled into a tight, anxious line. Mom and Dad would absolutely die if they knew I was ... here. She gripped her arms, fingernails carving zigzags until the trembling subsided. Settle down. Try not to think about them, okay? This is just a job interview. It’s not like she didn’t know what she’d be doing, right? Gina still calls you ‘bleacher girl’ to this day for a reason.

Lindsay loved her father. Really, she adored her entire family. That was what made leaving home so difficult. Deacon Donald Anastacio was a good dad. He’d mapped out all four of his daughters’ futures long ago, and nothing could change his mind.

Which, for Lindsay, was a problem.

Mr. Anastacio calmly laid out his disapproval and the many dangers Lindsay would face in moving to Las Vegas mere weeks after earning her high school diploma. He wanted his daughter safe, close to him. Envisioned her marrying Packard Walsh, giving him a grandbaby by the time she was twenty-one (and many more after that), and sitting in the third pew every Sunday for the rest of her life. Like a prim and proper Catholic woman should.

Leslie Anastacio handled the situation differently. Every day leading up to her daughter’s departure brought with it a new phantom ailment, including migraines, chest pains, dizzy spells, and upset stomachs. By the time Lindsay boarded the Greyhound in Palm Springs, Mrs. Anastacio had checked herself into the emergency room for a lump she was certain she’d felt yet wasn’t there. It’s all in her mind, all for show. It always is with her. Her mother loved her and meant well, but to Lindsay, that was the problem. She just wished that love didn’t come with a medical calamity every time she disappointed her.

Remember, girl: this is what you wanted.

Lindsay’s forehead scrunched as she stared at the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.

NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.

She assumed the sign’s intent was to protect anonymity and safety, thinking such rules applied to the public, not the employees. What’s a PDA? Surely, management wouldn’t forbid its own workers from using their phones, would they? But just to be safe, Lindsay stashed it in her backpack’s hidden compartment, patting it secure. Ain’t no one touching my phone.

She pressed the doorbell, and an obnoxious chime came from somewhere behind the thick mahogany. The sound set off an avalanche within her. Everyone, I ... oh God, what am I doing? I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Her backbone stiffened with conviction. No. I had to get away.

As far as her friends and family knew, Lindsay had taken a housekeeping gig for a hotel in Las Vegas. Yeah, right. Her mouth twisted to one side. Lying never was your strong suit.

Jennifer had recently graduated from Pepperdine with a degree in Biblical Studies and a smile that belonged on a church brochure. She’d received a full scholarship, maintained a 3.9 GPA, yet found time to drive two-and-a-half hours home every Sunday to lead prayer sessions for the congregation. Everything had always come easy for her, particularly their parents’ approval. Daughter of the Year, every year. Lindsay gave up trying to compete long ago.

Her other older sister, Gina, didn’t even bother coming to the bus station. She’d done her version of a goodbye on Saturday night, blocking Lindsay in her bedroom and listing all the ways this could go wrong. Gina had always cast herself as the realistic one, the sibling who saw things clearly. And what she saw in Lindsay was a girl destined to stumble. Reckless, she said, and headed for absolute catastrophe. She also told Lindsay not to come crying and looking for sympathy when things fell apart.

“Because they will. And you know they will. Don’t forget I tried warning you.”

Alison, though? “Ali” would send Lindsay nine thousand texts per day. That girl was the queen of texting and would keep Lindsay up to speed with memes, Instagram reels, random thoughts, photos of their dog, and a running commentary on whatever drama was happening in the neighborhood. Sometimes all those things at once.

But what about Evie? God, Evie.

Lindsay’s heart clunked with a bang. Evie Bancroft, her best friend since kindergarten, the one person who would see through the housekeeping story if they spoke too in-depth about it. They’d spent years talking about escaping Citronelle, about bigger lives and better places, but Evie’s version of escape was surfing and a beachfront condo in Redondo Beach. Not this. Never this.

She would tell Evie the truth one day. Eventually. Maybe.

Still, the door to this gosh-durned house had yet to open. What is going on? Was everyone still sleeping? Lindsay pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a high-pitched whine. C’mon, let’s get this over with. Leaving home was difficult, but at least she’d thought everything through carefully. Lindsay reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It doubled as a one-way ticket out of Citronelle too. I’m fine never seeing that flop era town again.

But what if the folks here didn’t like her? Lindsay unclenched her fingers as her jaw went rigid. Where am I gonna sleep tonight if they don’t hire me? No, no, no! Her eyes fluttered shut. Deep breath. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Gotta stay positive.

She adjusted her backpack, hitching it higher on her shoulder. You’re gonna slay. This job is yours. She’d bet on herself and there was no undoing it now. It has to work out. But what if things didn’t work out? Oh, cripes. Lindsay would have no choice other than to trudge back home and be stuck there forever. I’d morph into the second coming of Mom. Potlucks. PTA meetings.

... Packard.

Citronelle, California. Where her only options boiled down to working the corn dog stand and marrying that smug, controlling prick. “Nobody loves you as much as I do.” Packard’s hushed words, his hands pinning her against a school locker after he’d caught her talking to another guy this past February. “Nobody. If I can’t have you, then no one can.”

Growing up, Lindsay had always colored inside the lines. She’d done exactly what she was expected to do. Up until high school, at least. That was when she discovered boys. And sex. All Lindsay wanted from that point forward was to chase the next thrill and indulge herself.

And not get caught.

Easier said than done, though. “My God, you’re a slut.” Gina’s declaration, three years ago, after catching Lindsay and her first boyfriend, Eddie Kaufman, fucking under the bleachers. Gina had held that over her ever since, threatening to narc to Mom and Dad. “Listen up, bleacher girl. You’re gonna do exactly what I say, when I say it. You’re doing my chores this weekend. You got that? Oh, that’s so cute. You’re looking at me like you have a choice.”

Lindsay loved Gina regardless, as she did Jennifer and Ali, but if she could only pick one sister to have, it would’ve been Evie. She’s my other half. A smile tugged at her lips. Everyone knew if Evie was there, Lindsay wasn’t far behind. We did all sorts of girl things together, like sharing makeup, watching chick flicks, and sneaking off to Palm Springs in her dad’s convertible. And because Lindsay had finally broken things off with Packard weeks prior, she didn’t have a date for the senior prom. Evie asked me to go with her. She scratched at the tickle in her throat and blinked back the tears threatening to sting her eyes. Couldn’t have asked for a better prom date.