Chapter 1 

Ebony

The best part of my job smells like old paper, Elmer’s glue, and whatever shampoo the under-five set is using this week. Today, it’s a tie between strawberry and bubblegum. I’m sitting cross-legged on a rainbow-colored rug that’s seen better decades, holding up a picture book about a narwhal who’s afraid of the dark.

“And so, Nigel the narwhal decided that even the deepest, darkest ocean… wasn’t so scary with a friend.” I close the book with a gentle thump. Twenty pairs of wide, unblinking eyes are fixed on me, a sea of rapt little faces. A tiny girl in the front row with bright pink bows in her hair raises a chubby hand.

“Yes, Maya?”

“My daddy says narwhals are the unicorns of the sea.”

“Your daddy is a very wise man,” I say with a grin. “Okay, who wants a sticker?”

The question triggers a delightful, high-pitched pandemonium. It’s my favorite kind of chaos. Ten minutes later, the last of the kids has been zipped into a puffy winter coat and returned to their parent, each one clutching a sparkly narwhal sticker.

“You’re a miracle worker, Ebony,” Martha says, shuffling over to help me collect the scattered picture books. Martha’s been the head librarian here since before I was born, and her hip has been giving her trouble, but she refuses to slow down. “I swear, you could read them the phone book and they’d be mesmerized.”

“It’s all in the delivery.” I straighten a stack of books, my fingers tracing the cracked spine of a classic. I love this place. Every scuff on the floor, every faint crayon mark on the tables. But it’s not enough. Hollybrook deserves more. “I was just thinking, if we had the new community center, we could have a dedicated story-time theater. With tiered seating and a little stage.”

Martha gives me a soft, tired smile. It’s the one she uses whenever I bring up my grand, impossible dream. “And a state-of-the-art computer lab, and a teen lounge, and a proper coffee shop. I know, honey. It’s a beautiful dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be a dream.” I lean against a bookshelf, the familiar weight of my ambition settling in my chest. “If the town council would just approve the zoning variance for the old mill property… we could start fundraising in earnest.”

“Markham Cole will never let that happen. He says it’s a ‘fiscally irresponsible fantasy.’” She says the words like they taste bad, which, to be fair, they do.

I sigh. Markham’s been a thorn in the side of this project for years, all while calling my dad his best friend. It’s a political song and dance I’m tired of. “One day, Martha. I’m not giving up.”

“I know you won’t.” She pats my arm, then her eyes catch on my tote bag sitting on the checkout counter. A little slip of paper is peeking out of the front pocket. “Don’t tell me you actually bought a Powerball ticket.”

I feel a blush creep up my neck. “It was a moment of weakness. The jackpot was so huge, the clerk at the corner store practically insisted.” It’s true. He’d said, “Someone’s gotta win it, might as well be the person who brings all those books to Mrs. Gable every week.”

“Well, you’d better check it. I’d hate for you to have the winning ticket for the biggest jackpot in state history just sitting there.” She’s teasing, but there’s a hopeful little twinkle in her eye.

I laugh, pulling the crumpled ticket out. “Can you imagine? First thing I’d do is write a check so big this library wouldn’t know what to do with itself.” I smooth the ticket out on the counter and pull up the lottery website on my phone. My heart does a silly little pitter-patter, the way it does in the last fifty pages of a really good thriller. The page loads, the winning numbers displayed in a stark, bold font.

I read the first number on my ticket. 8. It matches. Okay, that happens sometimes. I read the second. 15. It matches. Huh. 21. 33. 48. My breath catches. The air in my lungs feels suddenly thick, heavy. I look from the screen to the ticket, then back to the screen. Every single number lines up. A perfect, impossible row. Even the Powerball. 12.

“Ebony? Honey, you’ve gone pale.”

My voice comes out as a squeak. I can’t form a word. I just turn the phone around and push it across the counter toward Martha, my finger trembling as I point at the screen, then at the ticket.

She squints, adjusting her glasses. She reads the numbers, her lips moving silently. Her eyes widen. Then they widen again until they look like they might pop right out of her head. A strangled gasp escapes her. “Oh, my word.”

We stand  for a full minute in dead silence, the only sound the hum of the library’s ancient furnace. The world tilts and rearranges itself around those six little numbers. My dream for a community center isn’t a dream anymore. It’s a blueprint.

Then Martha lets out a whoop so loud it probably startles the pigeons on the roof. She grabs me, pulling me into a fierce, bony hug. “You did it! You magnificent girl, you actually did it!”

And then my phone rings.

It’s my mom. News in Hollybrook doesn’t just travel fast; it achieves some kind of quantum velocity. “Ebony, baby, is it true? The clerk at the corner store just called your father!”

Before I can even answer, another call comes in. My brother, Jamal. I switch over. “Ebbie! Tell me it’s a joke. Are you seriously a gazillionaire?”

The drive home is a blur. My phone doesn’t stop buzzing. It’s a constant, vibrating shock against my palm. My sister, Aisha. My cousins from out of state. My best friend from college. People I haven’t spoken to since high school. The congratulations are a tidal wave, a joyous, overwhelming cacophony that leaves me feeling breathless and dizzy. I park in my driveway, in front of my little blue house with its wreath on the door and the festive lights framing the windows, and just sit there for a second, the engine off, the phone still buzzing in my hand.

This is good. This is everything I ever wanted for this town, for my family, for the library. This is a fairy tale ending. The kind of thing you read about in books.

So why does a cold tendril of anxiety snake its way up my spine?

I glance at the screen. A dozen missed calls. A flood of texts. Most of them are some variation of “OMG!” or a string of champagne bottle emojis. I scroll through them, a smile on my face, trying to anchor myself to the joy, to the sheer, world-altering goodness of it all.

Then I see it. A new message from a number I don’t recognize. No name attached. Just a string of digits. My thumb hovers over it, a sudden, inexplicable dread washing over me. I tap it open.

The message is only seven words long. Seven words that make the joyful buzzing in my ears go silent. Seven words that turn my cozy little home into a glass house.

I know where you live. You owe me.