CHAPTER ONE
IS THIS ALL
I’M EVER GOING TO BE?
IT WAS A COOL OCTOBER NIGHT in 2007, the twilight heat of summertime having given way to the bite of autumn. Jenny Ocean was 28 years old and driving north on US 13 in the direction of Wilmington, Delaware. Over the dashboard of her noisy truck, she could see the storm clouds moving her way as she approached her destination: a hardscrabble lumberyard set pretty much squarely in the middle of the red-light district in the south part of town.
A familiar feeling of dread came over Jenny as she parked and turned off the ignition. The first drops of rain from the forecast storm patted almost silently against her windshield. She jingled her key ring quietly as she looked at the building and contemplated what was inside. There was a detailed and colorful painting, almost a children’s-style graphic depicting a gazelle right inside the front door, which would have been a little odd for any business not called Gazelle Lumber. She wondered every time she went inside why someone would choose to name their business after that particular animal. A gazelle was skittish, always in a state of startled reaction, constantly scared.
She liked the painting, or at least the feeling of familiarity it gave her. But it also made her wonder:What kind of self-respecting gazelle would want to be seen in this dump?
Jenny sighed. She was running a little ahead of schedule. It was a Wednesday, about 7:35 p.m., and Gazelle Lumber had long been closed for the day. Jenny parked in the boss’s spot right next to the door that led into the front office. She always took the owner’s space. It was her small way of rebelling against the world that she intuitively knew looked down on her job as a cleaner, her barely scraping by day to day.
OK, the truck didn’t help her public image. It was ancient, and her father had given it to her years ago. It was a far cry from the owner’s pristine Lincoln Town Car, which Jenny always saw parked in front when she came to the lumberyard to pick up her twice-a-month paychecks (as well as, more often than not, a slightly lewd comment from the owner, or a joking question about whether she had found a boyfriend yet). The truck was a 1978 Dodge D150, with a three-speed on the column and not much in the way of features. It had belonged to her father before he gave it to her when she turned sixteen. When he had handed over the keys, he joked that it was a luxury model—it had doors, didn’t it? The truth was, Jenny didn’t really mind how spartan and dilapidated the Dodge was. If anything, it discouraged anyone from trying to steal it from outside her apartment or when she was working.
The job was to come in after hours three Wednesdays a month: vacuum, dust, clean the bathrooms, and take out the trash. Standard unskilled cleaner work. Jenny got th
