The yearly floods in Stonecreek inevitably claim lives, but when Valerie pulls a refugee from the turbulent waters, she uncovers a dark secret about her home.
For most, there is sanctuary to be had in their high-walled homes.
For outsiders shunned by those in power, there is only exile or death.
To create a better future for Stonecreek, Valerie must become a light in the dark—even if it means she joins the ranks of those doomed to be purged from the city-state’s stony streets.
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From Chapter One…
As it did every spring, Stonecreek flooded. The rest of the year, tourists questioned the layout of our streets, which featured tall curbs leading to wide sidewalks edging the looming,stone foundations of our houses. The steps for each residence or business had sloped sides designed to allow water to flow over them without destroying them. Every year, some needed to be replaced, but nobody minded.
Replacing the steps took a great deal less work and effort than replacing our homes.
Every year, I questioned my choice to be frugal. My steps would be among those needing to be replaced. Despite attempting to install a buffer to protect them, the flood waters had come with a vengeance, tearing away the wood before finishing what nature had started in previous years.
If I wanted to escape my home after the waters receded, I would need to recruit help or make use of my rope ladder, something I’d bought a few days prior.
My foundation was nine feet tall, and I wished the waters the best of luck tearing through the two foot thick stones. When I’d been given the chance to buy the property at a pittance, the first thing I’d done had been to shore the place, replacing the six inch, cracked stones with something meant to last. It’d cost me a fortune, but my home would stand no matter how severe the flooding got.
My steps, however, were a problem.
Someone would have to rebuild them, and that someone was me.
I observed the raging waters through my bay window, which jutted out over the sidewalk. If the torrent reached the window, I would be in a great deal of trouble despite my precautions.
No flood in the last hundred years had come anywhere near the top of my steps. This season, it clawed its way three feet over the sidewalk, making it one of the nastier floods since I’d moved to the city. If it continued to worsen, it might even come halfway up to my door, leaving chaos and debris in its wake.
The yearly cleanup, which the residents of Stonecreek turned into a party to encourage everyone to come out and help, would test my patience. Without fail, I would be asked to coordinate my block. The neighbors up the hill from me couldn’t handle the work; as it was, they’d need even more help than I would to escape their homes.
Their lift had been the first thing to be torn away on our street when the first surge hit. Everyone would pitch in to replace it, however. I’d provide both money and a pair of hands.
Neither could get around without wheelchair or walker.
While frugal, I cared about what happened to my neighbors.
The next house up the hill housed a pair of librarians, and we’d be checking in on them to make sure they’d made it, aware they likely got lost in their books without a single care of the world outside their door. The last house in the row, the largest of the lot, buffered everybody from the waters. When I’d first moved in, I’d questioned the home’s architecture, which curved at the end with a yard leading up to the intersecting street.
After my first year living here, I’d realized it had been designed to divert the water around the building and to the street. Every year, the owner replanted his garden along with the token knee-high fence that kept most people out but let people admire the flowers. In the four years since I’d purchased my property, I’d learned his first name: Joel. Nobody knew if he had a last name, as we drew the line at looking up his property record. Everyone on the street placed bets to see who might learn his last name through non-official records, conversations, or from the man himself.
As I hadn’t managed to meet the man face-to-face, I doubted I would learn his name without having to hit up City Hall and look at our street’s public records.
I’d joined the betting solely to keep everyone around me somewhat content with my general existence.
Down the hill were the snakes of our block, and I had no idea why three hell families had all decided to move next to each other. As a general rule, they ignored me and everyone up the hill, too busy fighting with each other to bother with us.
Assuming I could get out of my home when the cleanup began, I would handle making sure everyone else could escape, file the documentation in case someone hadn’t made it, and otherwise begin coordinating the cleanup.
As most of our neighbors across the street were businesses, I wouldn’t have to worry about them all that much. I’d arrange for their replacement steps if needed, have the bills routed to them, and call it a day.
I’d clean their foundations because I could.
As the sole person who’d bothered with owning a power washer, I’d clean all the foundations. The neighbors down the hill would be my prime source of amusement, as without fail, they’d compete with each other to see who could give me the best edible gift for saving them a bill.
I appreciated the gifts.
I couldn’t bake to save my life, and everyone on the street knew it.
I got up, meandered to my kitchen, and armed myself with a fresh cup of coffee spiked with a splash of cream liquor and chocolate. For the next six hours, I would stand watch over the flood, keeping an eye out in case someone had fallen prey to one of nature’s nastier tricks.
There wasn’t much I could do, but I kept a rope by my door with a life preserver, which I’d throw along with a prayer.