Chapter 1: Buried Secrets and New Beginnings

Back then, I was nobody—just another lost soul in the junkyard. But the way Savannah looked at me, I almost believed I could be someone again.

That landfill was a forgotten patch just outside town, littered with rusted soda cans and shredded tires. The cicadas were so loud you could almost miss the distant thump of a freight train, and the air stank of sun-baked plastic and old motor oil. Savannah knelt beside me in her scuffed jeans and battered boots, hands trembling as she brushed dirt from my face. I’ll never forget the sunlight flashing off her copper hair or the way she looked at me—like she’d just stumbled on buried treasure. There, surrounded by the stink and the heat, she said, “Come on, let’s get you outta this mess.”

She begged her adoptive father to let me come back with her to Maple Heights so we could get married.

Maple Heights was the kind of small Ohio town where every backyard had a tire swing and every porch a faded flag. She was on her cracked iPhone, voice tight and pleading, promising she’d never ask for anything again. The word ‘married’ hung between us—daring, reckless.

On the drive to meet her adoptive father, she warned me:

“My adoptive father is ruthless and impossible to please.”

She bit her lip, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror like she half-expected him to appear behind us. She gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles went white, the dashboard clock blinking 7:13 PM. “He doesn’t do second chances,” she said, her gaze darting sideways like she was sizing up if I’d jump out at the first sign of trouble.

This man, hungry for power, even sent his own wife to D.C. as a political pawn. After he won his campaign, they told him she’d died long ago in some crumbling apartment block on the edge of the city, the kind where nobody fixes the heat and the mailbox is always stuffed with junk. Wild grass grew up around her grave. Even then, her adoptive father didn’t shed a tear. Still, he knelt at her grave and had her body exhumed so she could be properly buried with full honors.

Savannah’s voice trembled as she told me, her eyes glued to the darkening highway. It sounded like one of those stories you hear at Sunday barbecues—impossible, except in this world, it was true. I pictured the overgrown plot behind a crumbling brick building, the makeshift cross, the tall man in a suit kneeling in the weeds. No tears, just duty. But in his way, he made things right in the end.

The more Savannah talked, the more she shook her head, like she still couldn’t believe it.

She tapped her thumb on the steering wheel, trying to shake off the memory. “He just... keeps moving forward. Like nothing can touch him.”

And the more I listened, the more I trembled.

My chest tightened with every word. It wasn’t just fear—it was resignation. Like she’d spent her whole life trying to reach him, and finally accepted he was a mountain that wouldn’t budge.

Trying to force a smile, I asked, “May I ask your adoptive father’s name?”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked anyway. My palms were sweating against the cracked leather of my borrowed jacket.

Savannah looked surprised, like she hadn’t expected anyone to ask. Then she smiled, understanding. “You’ve been recovering in the mountains for so long, it’s no wonder you don’t know what’s going on outside.”

She nudged my arm, her smile crooked. “You probably didn’t even hear about the last election up there. No TV, no Twitter, nothing but birds and wind.”

She explained that in recent years, the country’s leadership had changed, and her adoptive father—once second-in-command of the Harris family in Silver Hollow—was now the new President.

Her voice dropped, as if saying it out loud might summon Secret Service from the cornfields. “Everyone thought he’d top out at mayor or governor, but he played the long game. Won the White House last November.”

Savannah lowered her head and whispered in my ear, “His name is Daniel.”

She glanced around, like she half-expected the dashboard to start recording us. Her whisper tickled my ear, and for a second, the name alone made my blood run cold.

Daniel Harris.

The car rolled through the White House gates, maple trees shrouded in twilight.

Floodlights swept the lawn, and the historic columns glowed pale against the indigo sky. As we cruised up the drive, my breath caught—the same building I’d only ever seen in textbooks and news clips, now impossibly close.

My face went pale, and I gripped the golden keychain by the window tight.

The keychain was shaped like a little Ohio license plate, dented from years of fidgeting. I squeezed it so hard it left marks in my palm, like it could anchor me to reality.

Savannah thought I was just scared of her adoptive father’s reputation, so she tried to comfort me, taking my icy hand and laughing softly.

She rubbed circles on my knuckles, her smile gentle. “Hey, it’s just a dinner. And it’s only Dad. I’ve survived worse—like his Fourth of July speeches.”

“Why are you so scared? It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have told you all that. Don’t worry, my adoptive father has a lot of adopted kids, and I’m probably the last one on his list. He barely remembers my birthday. This time, you’ll probably just meet the First Lady.”

She shrugged, trying to make the whole thing sound like a trip to the grocery store. “Honestly, you’ll probably just meet his wife. She does all the talking anyway.”

Hearing this, I managed a smile, silently blaming myself for being so easily rattled just by hearing that name.

I forced the corners of my lips up, but my insides churned. I silently cursed myself for letting an old name shake me this badly.

Leaning against the car door, I patted my own cheek.

The glass was cool against my forehead as I gave myself a pep talk, low enough Savannah couldn’t hear: “Get it together.”

Useless.

My self-disgust prickled hotter than the summer humidity. I used to have steel nerves—where had that gone?

Back then, Jane Carter in the government housing had long since died, probably even her skin gone by now.

In my mind, I saw her grave—Jane Carter’s—nothing but wind and grass. Gone and forgotten, like a ghost in the city.

Now I am Abby, the abandoned daughter of a drifter, dug up from a landfill, my appearance completely changed.

I studied my reflection in the window: short hair, new jawline, freckles painted by the sun. A stranger stared back. Abby. Not Jane. Just another survivor of nowhere.

Even my own mother wouldn’t recognize me.

I remembered old photos, my mother’s calloused hand brushing hair from my eyes. That girl was gone. I could walk through my own house, and she’d pass by me on the stairs, a total stranger.

The most urgent thing is to get through the formalities, change my identity as soon as possible, and then get back to Maple Heights to find my older brother—rumored to have become an outlaw—and escape.

My pulse thudded with the plan: survive the introductions, make it through the legal hoops, get a new name—hell, even a new birthday if I could. Then I’d slip out to Maple Heights, find my brother—the one people whispered about, half-legend, half-criminal—and disappear for good.

By then, no matter who Savannah’s father is, with the President far away, no one will be able to find me.

My hope clung to the idea that, even with all the cameras and the press and the watchful eyes, the country was too big for anyone to keep track of one lost soul. Once out of D.C., I’d vanish.

It’s just that…

A pang twisted in my chest as I looked over at Savannah. She was hunched over, peeling an orange with all the focus in the world, the citrus scent curling through the car like a promise of summer.

I glanced at Savannah beside me, who was awkwardly peeling an orange, trying to cheer me up. I felt a little guilty.

She caught me watching, grinned, and offered a sticky, uneven wedge. For a heartbeat, she seemed impossibly kind. My guilt gnawed at me, sharp as the tang of fruit.

Daniel Harris owes me. Deceiving his adopted daughter a bit isn’t so wrong, is it?

I popped the orange segment in my mouth, told myself it was fair—just balancing the scales. The past never really lets you go.