Thirty-Eight Dollars
The thing that ruined Mara Vale’s perfectly ordinary life cost her thirty-eight dollars.
Technically, the thirty-eight dollars had bought her more than one thing.
Fourteen earrings missing their partners.
Three strings of fake pearls.
One necklace tangled beyond salvation.
Two rusted brooches.
And a gold pin that looked suspiciously like a duck.
Mara held the duck up to the light.
“Two dollars. Minimum.”
The white cat beside her reached out a paw.
“No.”
The paw stretched farther.
“This is an investment.”
The duck hit the floor.
A blur of white and brown shot out from under the table, snatched it, and vanished beneath the couch.
Mara closed her eyes.
“Great.”
She looked at the box.
“My thirty-eight-dollar investment is now worth thirty-six.”
She didn’t bother chasing the cat.
It was 6:43 p.m.
In forty minutes, she had to be at the Beaumont Hotel for her night shift.
The cardboard box on her kitchen table was a mystery jewelry lot she’d bought online.
Once a week, Mara took a jewelry restoration class at the community arts center. Real antiques were far beyond her budget, so estate-sale leftovers, junk lots, and broken jewelry had become her practice material.
Fix them.
Sell whatever could be saved.
Use the money to buy the next batch.
In theory, it was a self-funding hobby.
In reality, she was seventy-three dollars in the red.
Mara preferred to call thatstartup costs.
She pulled apart a knot of chains.
Something rolled free.
A ring.
Mara paused.
It was silver-gray and old-looking, set with a tiny stone so dark it was almost black.
Nothing about it screamed valuable.
Still, once she picked it up, she didn’t immediately put it down.
There were markings inside the band.
Very fine ones.
A curved line.
Three tiny intersecting strokes beneath it.
She grabbed her magnifying glass.
Nothing she recognized.
Then she held the ring beneath the lamp.
Something flickered deep inside the stone.
Mara blinked.
Gone.
“Okay.”
She took a few pictures and posted them to the secondhand account where she occasionally sold her restored pieces.
$38 mystery jewelry box. Mostly junk. Anyone know what this stone is?
She considered that, then added:
If it’s valuable, please break the news gently. I’m not emotionally prepared to become rich.
Mara slipped the ring onto the middle finger of her right hand.
Perfect fit.
Annoyingly perfect, actually.
She admired it for two seconds.
Then tried to take it off.
It didn’t move.
She pulled harder.
Nothing.
Ten minutes later, her kitchen sink was surrounded by soap, cooking oil, hand cream, and dental floss.
The ring hadn’t moved a millimeter.
Mara glared at it.
“You came in a thirty-eight-dollar box.”
She twisted it again.
“Don’t suddenly develop a family-heirloom attitude.”
Her alarm went off.
7:15.
“Damn it.”
She grabbed her coat.
Then stopped.
The cats’ food bowl was almost empty.
Mara opened her banking app.
Stared at the balance.
Then moved the money she’d set aside for breakfast tomorrow and ordered another bag of cat food.
She could eat toast.
The cats couldn’t.
“Make it last,” she told them.
She pointed at the white one.
“Especially you.”
The cat licked one paw.
Utterly unmoved.
Mara rented the small apartment above Bell & Finch Books, an old secondhand bookstore owned by Mrs. Anwen Finch.
Who also happened to be her landlord.
Mara hurried downstairs.
“Working tonight?” Mrs. Finch asked.
“Until morning.”
“Your white cat threw up.”
“I know.”
“On my awning.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like your awning.”
Mara was halfway through the door when Mrs. Finch called her name.
“Mara.”
She turned.
Mrs. Finch was staring at her right hand.
At the ring.
For the briefest moment, something changed in the older woman’s face.
Then it was gone.
“Come home early,” she said.
“I always come home early.”
“You come home at eight in the morning.”
“That’s still early.”
The door shut behind her.
Mrs. Finch didn’t move.
She stood between the shelves, staring at the closed door.
Slowly, she lowered the book in her hands.
2:17 a.m.
Nineteenth floor.
Beaumont Hotel.
“1908?”
Mara stared at her supervisor.
“I thought that room was closed.”
“Inspection tomorrow. It needs cleaning.”
“Extra pay?”
“Seventy-five.”
Mara took the keycard.
“Room 1908 is officially my favorite room.”
The Beaumont was more than a century old, and Room 1908 had accumulated about a century’s worth of stories.
Someone had died there.
There had been a fire.
Guests heard footsteps when the room was empty.
Hector from maintenance insisted the hotel invented half the stories to make an aging building sound historic instead of expensive to repair.
Mara believed Hector.
Ghosts didn’t pay rent.
The door opened.
Cold air touched her face.
Every piece of furniture was covered in white cloth.
The room smelled of old wood and paper.
Mara got to work.
Twenty minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
Then she stepped into the bedroom.
Her right hand burned.
Mara looked down.
The ring.
The dark stone was hot against her skin.
“Hey.”
She grabbed the band.
And the room vanished.
Sunlight exploded across her vision.
Hot stone beneath her feet.
Dry air in her lungs.
Columns rose in the distance, enormous against a sky so blue it almost hurt.
Beyond them stretched endless gold.
Sand.
Then she heard laughter.
A girl was running toward her.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
Gold at her throat.
A heavy crown on her head.
The girl reached Mara and caught both her hands as though she’d done it a thousand times before.
“You’re finally here.”
Mara froze.
She knew her.
Notshe looks familiar.
NotI’ve seen her somewhere.
She knew this girl.
She knew how her eyes narrowed when she laughed.
She knew that when she was angry, she bit the inside of her lower lip.
She even knew what she was about to say next.
But…
What was her name?
“Mara?”
The world shattered.
Mara opened her eyes.
Room 1908.
Her cleaning cloth lay on the floor.
“Mara?”
Her supervisor’s voice crackled through the radio.
“You okay?”
She swallowed.
“Yeah.”
The ring was cold again.
Mara picked up the cloth.
“Seventy-five dollars,” she muttered. “Of course this room is haunted.”
She finished quickly and headed for the door.
Then stopped.
There was something carved low into the wall.
Almost erased by time.
Mara crouched and turned on her phone flashlight.
A curved line.
Three intersecting strokes beneath it.
Slowly, she raised her right hand.
The markings inside the ring were identical.
The joke died on her lips.
The ring had arrived at her apartment yesterday.
But its symbol had been waiting inside a sealed hotel room for decades.
Maybe longer.
Much longer.
