CHAPTER1

~ Char ~

Mail. Who sent mail anymore? I snagged the envelope addressed to me—Char McDonnell—from our cubby on the main floor of the renovated, clapboard rooming house. It didn’t look like junk mail and, standing in the middle of the entry, I hooked a thumb under the envelope’s flap. I froze as a tiny metallic scritch from a nearby apartment door echoed across the entry. Randy. I flew across the ancient checkerboard tile as his door creaked open. I slipped behind the door that led up to my shared second-floor apartment and flicked its lock into place with an exhale of relief. Randy, our building manager, was having a midlife crisis and had a tendency to corner the five of us women from upstairs. He wasn’t an awful person, but he wasn’t the person I wanted to spend three quarters of an hour with every day.

James, the security guard at the nearby museum, however, was a different story. Hence my always-renewed annual membership. Not that I ever cornered the poor, sweet hottie. At least not for very long. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and I did also go to the Museum of Culture for the ancient pottery displays. Sometimes even when my favourite Viking-like security guard wasn’t on shift.

I climbed the stairs that led to the top floor space I shared with four friends. We had the run of the whole level, unlike the main floor, which was divided into three apartments along with the shared entry. All five of us had our own bedrooms, a giant four-piece bathroom, a generously sized powder room, and plenty of living space to share. We even had our own secret roomie, a Richardson’s ground squirrel (otherwise known as a gopher in these parts), Felipe, who’d adopted us before last winter.

“Were you good today?” I asked him as he met me at the top of the steps. “Were you quiet so Randy wouldn’t hear you?”

Felipe chittered.

“Good boy.”

He sat up on his hind legs and impatiently stretched his tiny, tawny paws upward.

“Hold your horses.” I dug into my canvas courier bag and pulled out my lunch leftovers. “Apple core, who’s your friend?” I sang, handing our chubby little buddy the core.

He grabbed it with both paws and began gnawing.

I hung a right into the living room, dropping my bag on the faded red sofa along with my mail. My friends had cleared out for the May long weekend, leaving me kicking about on my own just like at Christmas. Only this holiday, I hadn’t planned a one-day visit to go see my dad who lived two hours away. And even though it was only Friday night, I was already lonely and wishing for something to keep me occupied.

Right. The envelope addressed to me. Probably junk. I flopped onto the cracked leather armchair Samantha had found in a thrift store, then muttered “sacrilege” under my breath while moving one of her half-full coffee cups off my new stack of Grecian pottery hardcover books. Too lazy to get up again to retrieve my slate letter opener from my display of ancient pottery fragments near the window overlooking the street, I tore the envelope, curious about the sender, some place called YFGM.

Unfolding the enclosed invoice dated two days prior—May 15—I frowned. How could a place I’d never heard of be charging me for something? It didn’t even list what I’d purchased. I scanned the bottom line and choked at the amount due. Over one-hundred thousand dollars? Yeah, I would most definitely have recalled racking that up.

It had to be an error or a scam.

I toed off my pink slides and, tossing the invoice aside, rubbed my tired, blurry eyes. A day of data inputting at my temp job had done a number on them today. But I was one day closer to having enough money to take myself and my father to Athens on an ancient ruins and pottery tour.

I grabbed the invoice, double-checking the name and address. Nope. That was me. Oprah Charmaine McDonnell, Apartment 2A, Stone Street SE, Calgary, Alberta, Canada. They even had my first name, which basically nobody—and I mean,nobody—knew, because I went by my middle name, and always had. Tamara, one of my roommates, who I’d graduated from high school with, knew about the Oprah thing and that was it. Well, I guess, technically, my boss at the temp agency knew, too.

My first name was a shout-out to my mom’s most-favoured daytime TV host. I was lucky she hadn’t named me Oprah Howie Maury Joy McDonnell.

I flicked the invoice. My name had to be the key. Chewing on my bottom lip, I considered the possible implications of ignoring the invoice. Maybe it was like the dust in this place—if we ignored it long enough, Gabby took care of it. If I ignored the invoice, maybe it would go away, too.

But what if this was a credit-rating-impactful error or an identity-theft scam? There could be consequences if I didn’t pay up. But what if it was a scam, and I paid it?

Ha. That was funny. I was lucky to have an extra two-hundred dollars in my account by the time the end of the month hit—especially with our financial savvy roommate Samantha making the group of us act like grownups. A year ago, she’d sat us all down and made us set up automatic deposits that went into our new tax-free saving accounts and RRSPs.

Despite her influence, I still only had enough money to buy a one-way ticket to Athens with my savings, as well as maybe retire for two whole weeks if I cashed in my RRSP. Which she’d told me numerous times tonotdo. Ever. Not until I was a withered old senior citizen. Yes, withered.

Which meant I probably needed to act like a grownup and deal with this invoice or suffer her wrath if she found out about it.

I considered the invoice. What did YFGM stand for? Your Financially Gouging Mega-Scam?

I laid back on the couch, thinking and rubbing my eyes, not caring if I was blending mascara and eyeliner into my cheeks.

Maybe this was just a prank. A financial test from Samantha. I could see her pulling something like this if she discovered my legal first name. Last year she’d managed to convince me that our boss had shut down the whole temp agency where we worked in honour of my birthday. Sure, I’d been flying high due to recently earning employee of the month, but still. I’d fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker. Gulp, gulp like a baby fish who didn’t know any better.

She wasn’t a regular prankster, just like I wasn’t a sucker. But every once in a while….

It didn’t help that she had a certain regal gravitas about her, like pranks were beneath her. Although, just because she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, unlike me and our other roommates, it didn’t mean she wasn’t human. In fact, in some ways she was more down to earth than the rest of us and was probably the biggest prankster of us five.

So maybe it wasn’t the gravitas. Maybe it was those practiced innocent eyes and fluttering fake lashes that made me want to trust her. Every time.

Hook. Line. Sinker.