Chapter One
THE SMOKING GUN
In the three hours and forty-six minutes Camille Luna sat in jail, she catalogued plenty of similarities to the corporate world. The cold concrete cell was no different from the over-air-conditioned cubicles she’d spent most of her post-college life in. Both spaces were bleak, filled with stale air and the permeating stench of body odor. Like her office job, lockup offered no daylight, no sense of urgency from those in charge, and every bathroom break was monitored.
When Cam lost her job that morning, she expected to be finished with gray enclosures for the foreseeable future. Instead, by the afternoon, she’d traded one set of shackles for another.
“Luna.”
Back straight. Chin up.
Even if she was sitting in lockup, wearing her favorite work blouse—a coral shade that made her brown eyes pop—she could pretend she had everything together. That the rough concrete walls weren’t pulling at the synthetic material of her shirt, causing it to fray.
A wardrobe malfunction would be the least of her concerns.
“That’s me.”
Her cheeks heated as she watched the officer approach her holding cell. He knew who Cam was, since he was the same person to process her arrest nearly four hours ago.
“Come on.”
Encouraging, but she had no idea what happened next. In the movies, the sad, delinquent main character would phone a friend, and that person would immediately bail them out with a stern talking-to. But Washington, DC had done away with cash bail, and in its absence, Cam was clueless about the process for a silly crime.
Because this was a silly crime, if one could even call it a crime.
Thankfully, her release process was surprisingly simple since she qualified for something called a post-and-forfeit procedure. If she paid a small fee, she could walk free. It wasn’t an admission of guilt or a conviction, but the arrest would stay on her record. And so, after plenty of paperwork, Cam handed over her credit card, knowing there was a 50–50 chance it would be declined. When it was, she handed over another. It was a game of roulette, wondering which of the four accounts had an available balance. By card three, the small fee went through, and Cam limped out of the facility, work bag sliding down her shoulder and high heels in hand.
Her feet were covered in blisters after hours in heels. In the chaos of the day, she’d inadvertently thrown away her favorite commuting sneakers, stranding her in the three-inch work-appropriate pumps. The navy heels used to be her favorite for the spring–summer season, but now, they taunted her like a couple of sharks, razor-sharp teeth and all.
Walking barefoot on a DC sidewalk was not how she’d seen her Friday night going. She took small steps, dodging broken glass and trash, trying her best to focus on the positives: the breezy May evening, the comforting glow of lightning bugs, the familiar person standing in the street …
Wait.
“Danny,” she breathed, stumbling towards him on unsteady legs. “What are you doing here?”
* * *
In the four years since they graduated college, Danny Brennan hadn’t changed much. He wore the same collection of T-shirts and ballcaps, the archetype for sporty casual. A fraying rope bracelet still tied around his right wrist, a twined burst of color against peachy skin. And despite playful teasing from every one of their shared best friends, his shoe of choice remained high-top Chucks, each pair distressed in identical spots.
He leaned against his car, wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt. His dark hair had grown out in the months since she’d last seen him, and now, errant strands drooped into his eyes.
“You called me,” he replied, pushing off the car so he stood with her on the sidewalk. “I told you I was coming.”
Her parents were in Delaware, a two-hour drive on a good day. But even with their proximity, Danny was who she called. He was the only person in her life who wouldn’t judge her for descending into delinquency.
Except—
“How did you get here so fast? I called you three hours ago. It’s a six-hour drive from Rhode Island.”
“More like seven.” She stumbled backwards as he pulled his black Chucks off, followed by his socks. “I’ve been waiting here for an hour.”
“What? How?”
“Because I was in Maryland when you called.” Crew socks in hand, he slipped his bare feet back into his sneakers. “Cam, you texted me earlier with a picture of you crying, a SpongeBob meme, and three words: I got fired. Then, you wouldn’t pick up your phone and your voicemail box was full. Why is your voicemail box full?” He sighed. “Nobody had heard from you. Not Drew, not Cory, not even Morgan. How could I not show up? Granted, my original plan was cheering you up with a drink, not picking you up from the slammer.”
Hearing about his road trip was the final straw. The tears escaped, ruining whatever bit of makeup she still wore after the horrible day.
“Hey.” He rushed forward, two firm hands on her shoulders. “Don’t cry, Milly.”
Milly. Danny was the only person to call her that. The nickname was the best thing she’d heard all day.
Wiping her eyes, she asked, “Can we get out of here?” When her stomach growled, she realized she hadn’t eaten since the morning, when she inhaled a plateful of diner pancakes in a post-termination shock. “Maybe grab some food?”
“Of course.” He held out his socks, staring at her bare feet. “You can put these on. I’d give you my shoes, but I don’t think they’ll fit.”
Cam accepted the socks, smiling through the tightness of her tearstained cheeks. “Thank you. These are perfect. Assuming they don’t stink.”
He held out his arms, making a display of sniffing his armpits. “No smell here. Nothing but ocean breeze and car air-conditioning.”
They climbed into his car, and as Danny drove off, his attention bounced between her and the DC streets. “What do you wanna do?” he asked, fidgeting with the radio dial until it was a low hum. “Grab some food and head to your place?”
“Could we … drive for a little bit?”
“We can drive for as long as you wanna.”
Lulled by the familiar streets, she leaned against the headrest and watched Danny. She hadn’t seen him since September, when he last visited. But even with the states between them, they talked often, texting about TV shows, and work, and Danny’s rescue dog, Reginald, a pit bull–golden retriever mix he adopted last year.
Long-distance friendships had become the norm for Cam, and despite years of practice, it never got easier. She missed Danny. She always missed Danny. Since their first meeting freshman year of college, he’d been one of her best friends.
She started school expecting to befriend people from all walks of life. Rich, poor. Humanities majors, STEM majors. East Coasters, West Coasters. But her dad always laughed, saying she’d gravitate to people with similar backgrounds and similar interests. He was right, considering every one of her college best friends had come from middle-class families, grown up in the Northeast, and majored in business.
But with Danny, it was like looking in a mirror. They were born to loud but loving Jewish mothers and curmudgeonly Catholic fathers stuck in their ways. Hers was second-generation Mexican American, insistent on her minoring in Spanish and suffering through CCD classes at the local church until eighth grade. His was who-knows-how-many-generations-back Irish, always talking about the trip he’d take to County Kilkenny to meet the cousins he connected with on social media.
They grew up in the smallest states—she in Delaware, he in Rhode Island. Neither had siblings, neither had childhood pets, and when it came to college, they both entered with no direction, ending up in the business program because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Nearly eight years later, they still celebrated the Chrismukkah season together, always finding time to laugh through challah slathered in butter or her family’s recipe for tamales, even if only on FaceTime.
They bonded over overbearing parents and unknown futures.
“Cam? You okay?”
“I’m alive.”
He laughed gently, the sound muted by the beeping blinker as he turned. “Good. But I gotta ask … What happened? I get a three-word text and hours later, I’m picking you up from jail.”
Exhaling, she gathered her knotted hair into a ponytail. She’d spent the morning straightening it, and now, the frizzy ends looked like Silly String. “It was a normal Friday,” she explained. “Until a little before ten, when my boss pulled me into a last-minute meeting with the head of our division. A lot of promotions come in Q2, so I thought … maybe that’s what this meeting is. I’m getting a promotion.”
Now, she laughed at the absurdity as she played the staring game with her windowed reflection. Messy blonde hair. Blackened cheeks. Skin whitened from an excessively long DC winter and unfairly cold spring, until she looked sickly pale.
Copyright © 2026 by Jenna Ramirez