Chapter 1: Behind Closed Eyes Series - Book One

The alarm blares at 6:15 AM for the third time. I’ve hit snooze twice already, and now I have exactly seventeen minutes to transform from a zombie to a functioning human being.

I peel my face off the pillow, feeling the indentation of fabric lines across my cheek. Another stunning look to add to my repertoire. My phone screen glows with notifications—mostly TikTok updates and a text from Mira asking if I can cover her shift next weekend. Fat chance. I’ve covered for her three times this month already.

The rain patters against my window in that constant, depressing rhythm that’s basically the soundtrack to this city. Grey skies, grey buildings, grey mood. Sometimes I think about moving somewhere sunny, but then I remember that requires money, which requires a better job, which requires qualifications I don’t have. The circle of life, Simba.

“Ellie! Are you up?” Mom’s voice carries through the door, that particular tone that says ‘I know you’re still in bed.’

“Yep! Super up. Practically jogging already,” I call back, my voice still thick with sleep as I drag myself vertically.

My room is the same one I’ve had since I was twelve. The walls are still the lavender I begged for as a pre-teen, now covered with beauty certification diplomas and torn-out magazine pages featuring makeup looks I’ve recreated. Professional achievements plastered over childhood dreams. Deep.

I stumble to the bathroom, only to find the door locked.

“Zoe! Some of us have actual jobs to get to!” I bang on the door, knowing full well my sister is probably sitting on the toilet reading about someone getting their throat slashed in creative ways.

“Five minutes,” she calls back, unbothered.

“I don’t have five minutes,” I mutter, leaning against the wall. Through the door, I can hear pages turning. Of course, she’s reading. Zoe consumes psychological thrillers like I consume coffee—desperately and in unhealthy quantities. She’s got this whole collection of books about serial killers and twisted minds. Nothing like starting your day with a little light reading about dismemberment.

The door finally opens, releasing a cloud of steam. Zoe emerges, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet, clutching her latest murder mystery to her chest like it’s a precious artifact.

“All yours,” she says, as if she hasn’t just robbed me of precious getting-ready time.

“Thanks for your generosity,” I deadpan. “Who’s getting butchered today?” I nod at the book in her hand.

“Oh, it’s this really good one about a killer who collects his victims’ teeth as trophies,” she says with disturbing enthusiasm. “The detective has trauma from her childhood that connects to the—”

“Cool. I create meaning by not getting fired. Which might happen if you keep hogging the bathroom while reading about dental fetishists.”

She rolls her eyes and pads down the hallway to her room, trailing water droplets that I’ll probably slip on later. Sometimes I wonder if I should be concerned about her obsession with literary homicide, but then again, she’s probably wondering the same about me and my collection of eyeshadow palettes.

I rush through my shower, mentally calculating how many minutes I can devote to each element of my appearance. The irony isn’t lost on me—I spend my days making other people look beautiful, usually with more care than I give myself. But that’s how it goes when you’re perpetually racing the clock.

Back in my room, I pull on my black uniform—pants and button-up shirt with the salon logo, all very chic and professional for someone who will spend the day waxing strangers’ body parts and applying mascara to middle-aged women who want to “feel young again.”

I quickly do my makeup, the one area where I refuse to compromise on time. Bold winged liner, subtle contour, and a red lip that says “I have my life together” even when everything else screams otherwise. The face that stares back at me from the mirror looks put-together, confident. A good costume for the role I’m playing today.

Downstairs, Dad’s already left for work. Mom sits at the kitchen table, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling through some social media feed.

“There’s coffee,” she says without looking up.

“Thanks.” I pour some into my travel mug, adding enough cream and sugar to mask the burnt taste. Dad makes coffee like he’s preparing to wage chemical warfare.

The kitchen is cluttered with family photos and cheap decorative signs with phrases like “Home Is Where The Heart Is” and “Live, Laugh, Love.” Sometimes I feel like we’re living in a catalog of middle-class clichés.

I notice Zoe’s latest thriller splayed open on the counter, bookmark showing she’s already halfway through despite starting it yesterday. The cover features a shadowy figure and a bloody handprint. Charming breakfast material.

“I might be late tonight,” I tell Mom as I grab a granola bar from the pantry. “Alicia booked a bridal party for closing time.”

“There’s leftover casserole you can heat up,” she replies, still not looking away from her phone.

“Great.” The casserole is three days old and wasn’t good the first time. “Can’t wait.”

As I throw on my coat and grab my umbrella, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. Twenty-four years old, still living at home, sharing a bathroom with my murder-obsessed sister, eating leftover casserole, and spending my days making other people pretty. Not exactly where I pictured myself at this age.

I open the front door to a wall of grey mist. Seattle’s infamous weather greets me like an old, unwelcome friend. The sky and buildings blend together in a monotonous landscape of wet concrete and cloudy windows. Somewhere in this depressing panorama is an apartment with my name on it. Or it will be, once I figure out how to afford it on a cosmetician’s salary plus tips.

My phone buzzes with a text from my manager: “Staff meeting 15 min before opening. Don’t be late.”

Perfect. Nothing says “good morning” like an impromptu critique session before I’ve fully caffeinated.

I step out into the rain, pop open my umbrella, and begin the daily migration to the bus stop. Another day in paradise, Seattle style.

The bus reeks of wet clothing and desperation. A charming bouquet. I grab a pole and try not to touch anything else, watching the city blur by through foggy windows. The morning commuters all have the same dead-eyed stare, illuminated by the blue glow of phone screens. We’re like a herd of zombies being shuttled to various locations to pretend we’re alive for eight hours.

My boss, Vivian, is already waiting at the salon when I arrive, exactly two minutes before our staff meeting. Her perfectly highlighted bob doesn’t move as she turns her head to check the clock.

“Cutting it close, Ellie,” she says with that thin smile that never reaches her eyes.

“But still on time,” I reply, hanging my dripping coat and umbrella on the rack.

The salon smells like the usual mix of hair products, nail polish, and essential oils—our attempt to mask the chemical warfare with “calming lavender.” The lighting is deliberately flattering, designed to make everyone look better than they actually do. False advertising at its finest.

Mira and Jen, my coworkers, are already seated in the break room. Jen is scrolling through her Instagram, probably studying celebrity makeup trends she’ll try to convince suburban moms to wear. Mira is nursing, what I assume is her second coffee of the day.

“Morning, sunshine,” Mira says, looking far too chipper. “Ready for another day of beautifying the masses?”

“Always,” I lie, pouring myself the sludge that passes for coffee in the break room. “What’s this meeting about?”

“New product line we need to push,” Jen says without looking up from her phone. “Some anti-aging miracle cream.”

“Great. Just what Seattle needs—more overpriced skincare that doesn’t work in constant humidity.”

Vivian clears her throat dramatically as she enters the room, clutching a glossy folder to her chest like it contains state secrets instead of commission structures.

“Ladies, we have an exciting new opportunity,” she begins.

I tune out as she goes into her rehearsed speech about the revolutionary new products we’ll be selling. I’ve heard it all before. Revolutionary. Cutting-edge. Transformative. Guaranteed. Words that mean absolutely nothing but somehow convince women to spend half their paycheck on tiny jars of hope.

My mind drifts to apartment hunting. I’ve been browsing listings on my breaks, calculating and recalculating how much I can afford. Even the smallest studio apartments in Seattle cost a fortune, and anything remotely affordable looks like it might have previously been a crime scene. Maybe that’s why Zoe reads all those murder books—she’s preparing for the kind of apartments we can actually afford in this city.

“Ellie? Are you with us?” Vivian’s voice snaps me back to reality.

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds amazing.”

She narrows her eyes slightly but continues. “As I was saying, we’re offering incentives for the highest sellers this month. The first prize is a spa weekend at the Olympics.”

Now that gets my attention. The Olympic Hotel is luxury personified—the kind of place where they probably don’t have a three-day-old casserole on the room service menu.

“Second prize is a $200 gift card to Nordstrom,” she continues. “Third prize is—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “We’re fired?”

Vivian’s smile turns frigid. “Training on the new product line.”

Even worse.