Page 1 of Watch Me Burn

PROLOGUE

Iswear, it shouldnotbe this difficult to find a place to rent in a city with this many hulking skyscrapers.

My fault. That’s what I get for impulsively choosing to settle down in a city I never heard of before instead of sticking around New York like I have my whole life. Then again, why would I? After Aunt Maureen eloped with that dashing silver fox she met at her Tuesday pottery class, I finally decided there wasn’t anything holding me back at home. Hey. I’m twenty-eight. My amazing aunt—who raised me after I lost my parents as a toddler—is finally putting herself first for once. My friends are all busy with their jobs and their families and their lives. They’re all living it up.

Why shouldn’t I do the same thing?

I’ve been searching for clarity my whole life. Meaning.Purpose. I live for my art, and I’m lucky that I’m successful enough at it to turn it into a living. As a digital artist who works on commission, I’m not tied down to any one place. Giving up my cramped apartment in Queens, I packed my car with everything I owned, then drove until I took a wrong turn and ended up in a city called Clarity.

Literally. Iliterallyfound Clarity, and with my smartass nature and sense of humor, I knew I had to make this place my new home.

It’s a walkable city, too, which is great because I prefer the exercise, my wallet prefers not having to pay for gas, and my poor beater of a car is definitely on its way out. There are plenty of restaurants and take-outs for when I don’t want to cook, and the hotel I’ve been staying at these last two weeks is surprisingly affordable.

Housing, though? It’s almost non-existent.

Okay. That’s not entirely true. Believe me. I’ve spent those two weeks searching my computer, trying to find an apartment or a condo in my budget. There are hundreds of them—with or without roommates—and I’ve lost track of how many I’ve applied to, or the amount of rooms I’ve gone to tour in person.

And, yet, I get the feeling that, every time I do, they’ve already made up their mind about keeping me out of their properties.

What the hell? Do they have a thing against redheads or something? It sure seems like it, and as affordable as the hotel is, I’m still burning through the money I have set aside for my first and last month’s rent. I need to find a lease or a sublet or, at this point, even a closet to shove me and my stuff inside. So long as it has an electric socket so that I can charge my drawing pad, I’m good.

I’m good—or maybe I’m just that desperate.

On my list today, I have three new apartment buildings to stop by. Each one claims it has a handful of openings, and since I’m ahead on my latest commission, I figure I should check them out while my odds are better of meeting with any on-site managers.

That’s another thing about Clarity. As populated as it is, it has this almost cozy, small town vibe to it. Most shops closebefore it gets dark. Even the desk clerk who runs the hotel at night—a portly man in his early fifties with kind brown eyes and good recommendations for the local food joints—insists that it’s better that I return to my room before the sun goes down.

It’s not a crime thing. So spooked after he made the suggestion the first time, I looked it up online. With such a unique name, it wasn’t hard to find, and everything I read said that Clarity’s super safe. Not a single recorded homicide or reported sexual assault in the last five years.

Of course, that doesn’t mean theydon’thappen, but it’s not like I’m looking to move to a crime hotspot. And I’d like to blame that knowledge for how reckless I am… but let’s be honest. Bridget Hayes has always acted on instinct, going with her gut, whether that means choosing to relocate to a strange city she’s never heard of—or getting involved when she witnesses a man pestering a woman on the street.

It’s barely noon. After stopping by the first two apartment buildings on my list—and mentally crossing them off when one manager refused to even accept my application, and the other smiled a thin-lipped smile before promising to get in touch should an opening come up—I was following my phone to the Sanguine Apartments when I glanced up and saw the altercation happening right in front of the entrance.

The man is about my age, maybe a little older. His dark hair is cut short, his back broad, and the vein in his neck bulging. He’s not shouting, though his hands are animated as he talks intently at the woman he’s looming over.

She’s a petite thing. I can’t make out many of her features since the man is blocking her with his bulk, but I catch a flash of deep, ruby-red hair that makes mine seem almost orange in comparison as she shakes her head before she turns away from him.

He reaches out, lashing a hand around her upper arm, twisting her around so that she’s forced to look up at him again.

Oh,hellno.

My reaction is instinctive. Shoving my phone into my back pocket, freeing my hands, I stalk over to them, feeling my temperature rise with every forceful step against the sidewalk.

You see, I have a teeny, tiny bit of a temper, especially when I see an obvious power imbalance. I know what people think about me, too. Feisty redhead who can’t keep her damn mouth shut. It’s a stereotype, but I’m living proof that stereotypesarestereotypes because sometimes they just fit.

I fist my hands as I get within reach of them. “Hey, you,” I call out, aiming the venom in my voice at his back. “If the lady isn’t interested, that isn’t the sign to keep on pushing her, hoping she’ll budge. No means no, asshole.”

His head snaps over his shoulder.

He doesn’t look angry, though. He looks lost. Heartbroken, even. His dark eyes are wide, almost frantic, and as though my glare is full of fire that burns, he immediately releases his hold on the woman.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, his voice gruff as he looks back to address her. “Elise… I’m so sorry. But you have to listen to me?—”

I snort. “No. She doesn’t,” I say pointedly, before glancing at Elise, checking to see if she’s alright. I nearly swallow my tongue when I do, and only just manage to choke out, “You okay, hon?”

She nods slowly, and the man starts babbling his apologies to her again while she rubs the fingerprint marks he left behind on her skin.

I glare at him some more just to reinforce how much he screwed up.

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