On The Dotted Line

On The Dotted Line Katie Stearns Copyright Copyright © 2022 by Katie Stearns All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Contents Trigger Warning Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Epilogue Acknowledgments About The Author Also By Katie Stearns Trigger Warning Contains strong language, depictions of domestic abuse and attempted sexual assault. Chapter One Dani Oh, this is bad. So, so bad. This is exactly what it looks like when shit hits the fan. And I would know. I’ve had so much shit hit the fan in my life. Really? Really, Universe? It’s not enough that I lost my job two weeks ago and am already behind on my debt? No, let’s just throw a fire in there, too. Cause at this point, why not? This is no fire drill, ladies and gentlemen. We’re not talking about a bit of smoke in the apartment building hallways or some singed carpeting. Oh no, this thing is a goddamn neighborhood bonfire. Except the thing that’s burning is the neighborhood itself. Okay, not the whole neighborhood. But a big part of it. My tiny apartment wasn’t anything special, but it was my home. And I say was because I know by morning, there won’t be anything left of it. Just ashes and soot and cinders. Ha, I should start calling myself Cinderella. I shake that thought away. Not appropriate, Dani. But I can’t help it if I’m one of those awkward people who laugh in serious situations. What else can I really do, anyway? Cry? Well, yes. I could cry. No one would blame me for breaking down in hysterical sobs right now because this is just one more unappetizing topping on the shitty pizza that has been my life lately. A dash of Wildly In Debt seasoning. Ooh, how about a sprinkling of Unemployment Cheese? And then the Chef of the Universe says, “Oh, I got it. This Dani Pizza would be just perfect with a handful of…FIRE.” And then he cackles like one of those evil villains from cartoons and strikes the match. Just the right amount of Apartment On Fire. *chef’s kiss* A screaming siren has my head jerking toward the welcome sight of a fire truck. Its glaring headlights slice through the darkness of the night, and its strobing light bar mingles with the light of the fire on the pavement. I scramble back out of the way as firefighters hop out and begin hooking up a hose to the fire hydrant on the corner. Silly firefighters. It’s way too late. The whole damn thing is on fire. Even at midnight, my street is aglow with so much angry, dancing light that it might as well be daytime in front of me. Flames have engulfed the entire six-unit apartment building and are steadily turning every last wall and floorboard to smoldering ash. The windows have exploded with glass confetti shards. The cement steps are stained black from the smoke billowing out the front entrance. The roof is sagging and coughing smoke as the rafters disintegrate beneath it, the air thick and hot as the fire rages. So yeah, there’s no getting my apartment back. Not that it was anything special. It was kind of gross, actually. Peeling linoleum tile in my dishwasher-less kitchenette. Cracked walls due to a crumbling foundation. Smelly carpeting that I could never quite get clean, no matter how many times I vacuumed. A family of immortal cockroaches skittering around in the bathroom every time I entered. I’m sure the building wasn’t up to code because the electricity was here and there. I won’t miss any of those aspects of living in that puny studio apartment. But the whole having a roof over my head thing? Yeah. Definitely going to miss that. At least I managed to grab a few important things before I heeded the blaring fire alarm and dashed out to safety. My phone, wallet, a framed picture of my parents on their wedding day, and a small packet of important documents like my birth certificate. That packet also held the only thing I have left of my parents. Their wedding rings. At least I still have those. The firefighters begin soaking the flaming building with water, but I feel like telling them to just save the water. There’s no getting back the roof over my head. At this point, just let her burn. A sullen police officer crosses in front of me to speak to my landlady, Sandy Johnson. I shiver. She’s always given me the heeby-jeebies—something about her cold stare and demeanor that never waver, even when I’m nothing but delightful to her. Her face is set as she speaks with the police officer, her brown hair as disheveled as her worn, plaid pajama set. Why she’s wearing winter pajamas in July is beyond me. I know this is Minnesota, but come on. She probably has the only apartment with air conditioning. Or she did, that is. I glance behind her, at my neighbors, who all stand with gaunt and aggrieved expressions. No one is panicking or crying for a loved one stuck in the building, so I’m assuming everyone got out. The EMTs already checked everyone over for injuries and smoke inhalation. I wish I knew my neighbors, but I don’t know a single one of their names. In a neighborhood like this, you keep to yourself. It’s better and safer to keep your head down and just live your own life. Because you never know who could be dangerous. I know that sounds