Page 1 of The Dixon Rule

CHAPTER ONE

DIANA

Satan strikes again

JULY

TWO BEADS OF WATER FORM AT THE TOP OF MY MIRROR AND THEN slowly begin to race each other down to the bottom. I make a bet with myself that bead number two will be the winner, since it’s marginally bigger. Go big or go home, right? But while it picks up speed, there’s a quick veer to the left. Bead one stays the course and drips onto my bathroom vanity.

This is why I refuse to gamble.

I grab a washcloth and wipe the rest of the condensation away to reveal my reflection. A pink flush covers my chest and shoulders, evidence of the scalding water temperature. There’s something wrong with my shower, but I’m too broke to bring in a plumber, and my dad said he can’t drive down to my neck of the woods until later this week. Which means I need to deal with my lava water for a few more days, if my skin doesn’t burn off first.

Maybe after Dad fixes the shower, I muse, he can tackle the drawer of the kitchen cabinet that suddenly refuses to open. And then figure out why the refrigerator ice dispenser stopped working for no discernable reason.

Being a homeowner is exhausting. Especially when you’re totally incompetent. Did I mention the original issue with my showerhead was that it wouldn’t stop dripping? I attempted to fix the drip myself by watching an online tutorial, and that’s how the shower spray turned into a volcano. DIY plumbing is not my friend.

I turn away from the mirror and pull a fluffy, pink towel off the door hook, exiting the steam-filled bathroom to inhale the normal air in the hallway.

“I almost died in there,” I inform Skip when I enter the living room, tucking the towel around me. I glance across the roomy, loftlike space toward the twenty-gallon fish tank against the far wall of the living area.

The fat goldfish glances back at me with that deathly, unnerving stare.

“I don’t like that you can’t blink,” I tell him. “It freaks me the fuck out.”

He stares again, then swishes his fins and swims to the other end of the tank. A second later, he’s not so covertly hiding behind a gold-painted treasure chest. When I showed the guy at the fish store a picture of Skip, he told me he’d never seen a goldfish that large. Apparently my fish is obese. Not to mention too silent for my peace of mind. I don’t trust pets that don’t make noise.

“You know what, Skip? One of these days you’re going to be upset about something and instead of comforting you, I’m going to swim away too. So put that in your stupid pirate’s chest and choke on it.”

I hate fish. If I had the choice, I would not be a fish owner. This horrible task was foisted on me by my dead aunt, who bequeathed her prized, unhelpful goldfish to me in her last will and testament. The executor looked like he was trying not to laugh when he read that part out loud to our family. My younger brother, Thomas, didn’t make the effort—he busted out in laughter until Dad gave him the look.

On the upside, the fishbowl came with Aunt Jennifer’s apartment, which makes me a twenty-one-year-old homeowner. So you win some, you lose some.

The shower was so scorching it left me parched. I want to chug a bottle of water before I get dressed. I walk barefoot to the fridge, but my step stutters when the cell phone on the granite counter suddenly chimes, startling me. I pivot and check the screen, then stifle a groan. It’s a message from my ex.

PERCY:

Hey, want to get together tonight and catch up? I’m free after 8.

Nope. Not interested. But I can’t be that blunt, obviously. I might have a temper, but I’m not needlessly rude. I’ll have to find a nice way of letting him down.

This isn’t the first time he’s reached out to “catch up.” I suppose it’s my fault, since I said we could remain friends after the breakup. Here’s some advice: never offer to stay friends if you don’t mean it. It’s a recipe for disaster.

I abandon my phone on the counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge. I’ll deal with this Percy text after I get dressed.

I’m tossing the empty bottle in the trash can under the sink when the familiar sound of meowing permeates the hall. The paper-thin walls of my condo do nothing to block out the noise outside my door. I hear every footstep, and the pitter-patter of Lucy’s tiny paws is no exception. Plus the damn thing wears a bell on her collar, advertising her every move.

I stifle a curse as the sense of obligation sinks in. I love my downstairs neighbor, Priya, but her escape-artist cat drives me nuts. At least once a week, Lucy manages to break out of her apartment unseen.

Opening the door pulls a gust of cold air into my entryway. I try to shake off the goose bumps forming on my arms as I step onto the smooth tile outside my door.

“Lucy?” I ring out in a singsong voice.

I know better than to allow any hint of frustration to show in my tone when I call her name. At the slightest sign of anger, that gray ball of fluff will shoot downstairs for the lobby door like a meteor hurtling toward Earth.

Meadow Hill, our apartment complex, isn’t like other buildings. It’s not some fifty-story monstrosity stuffed with hundreds of condos. Instead, the architect who designed it fashioned it after a beach resort, so the grounds consist of fifteen two-story buildings each housing four condos. Winding paths connect all the buildings, many of which overlook the lush lawn, tennis courts, and swimming pool. The last time Lucy snuck out, my other downstairs neighbor, Niall, was just coming home from work. Lucy took advantage of the opening lobby door and flew past him in the search for eternal freedom.

“Lucy?” I call again.

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