Chapter 1: The Conman’s Daughter

My dad’s a con artist—an old-school hustler, the kind you don’t see much anymore. (He always called himself a charlatan, but honestly, that word’s a little too fancy for the way he told it. In America, you’d just call him a con man, or maybe a hustler, and he’d wear that badge like it was something special.)

He’d always say it with this swagger, too, like he was proud of it. There was a certain twinkle in his good eye—(the other one, he kept covered)—whenever he called himself a “man of many talents.” I swear, he could spin a line so smooth you’d forget he was just another guy with a knack for reading people and telling them exactly what they wanted to hear. Still, there was something almost magical about the way he could walk into a room and make folks believe he had all the answers. Like it meant something.

I followed him all over the country: him the master, me the apprentice. That’s how it was. But all that changed when we got caught up in a murder case. The cops searched for over ten days and couldn’t find the body. Ten days. Nothing. Then my dad set up his altar, performed a ritual, and pointed out the exact spot where the corpse was buried.

We’d drifted from Florida’s panhandle to the backroads of Kentucky, always staying one step ahead of the law or angry marks. I learned early: pack a suitcase in five minutes flat. Read a room before you even walk in. That murder case in Indiana, though? That was the first time I saw my dad do something that made even the most hard-nosed detectives stop and stare. The way he found that body—well, it left the whole town buzzing for weeks. Still makes me wonder.

That was the first time I thought maybe he actually had some real skills.

I mean, it’s one thing to trick folks out of a few bucks with a cold reading or a spooky story. When the sheriff’s whole search team came up empty, my dad just waltzed in—I swear, it was like he’d seen it in a dream—and pointed to a patch of earth, calm as you please… That’s when I started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than smoke and mirrors.

But afterward, he told me it wasn’t that simple. He sat there for a long time, pouring himself a glass of his usual bottom-shelf whiskey and staring at the wall. “Ellie,” he said, “sometimes the trick isn’t seeing ghosts—” (he paused, took a sip) “it’s seeing what everyone else refuses to look at.” I didn’t really get it then. Still don’t, sometimes. But I knew he looked tired in a way I’d never seen before.

Jake Miller lost his child. I knew that kid—Kyle Miller, from our school. On his way home, Kyle just disappeared. Like, one minute he was there, the next—gone. The police spent more than ten days searching, brought in dogs, the whole nine yards, but they didn’t find a single clue. All they found was his blue cartoon backpack on the bridge he always crossed, and the beat-up bike he rode to school every day—splattered with blood, lying on its side. No sign of him, dead or alive.

That bridge was just a few blocks from our shop, and every kid in town had crossed it at least once. The news hit hard. Missing posters went up on every telephone pole. For a while, nobody let their kids walk home alone. Even the old-timers at the diner stopped gossiping about politics and started whispering about what might’ve happened to Kyle. I swear, it was like the whole town was holding its breath, just waiting for the worst.

Jake Miller was at the end of his rope.

I’d seen him around before—big guy, always had a kind word for anyone, but now he looked like a ghost himself. He’d come by our shop, hands shaking, voice cracking, asking if my dad could help. Man, you could see it—he was desperate. Like he’d do anything, believe anything, just to get his boy back.

Kids going missing in the backwoods ain’t all that rare. But no one’s ever caused as big a stir as the Millers. I mean, everyone knew. Pretty much everyone within a ten-mile radius knew the story. Heard someone say, “If the regular way isn’t working, maybe try the supernatural.”

You know how it is in small towns—folks talk, rumors spread faster than wildfire. Some blamed drifters, others muttered about old curses. Honestly, it was like every old story came out. When the police came up empty, it was only a matter of time before someone suggested trying the “other side.”

That’s how it goes—when disaster hits, it doesn’t matter if you believed before—you start pinning your last hope on the mystical. And the Millers ran the local funeral home. Superstition ran deep in their bones. So, Jake Miller came looking for my dad by reputation.

The funeral home was this old brick building at the edge of town, faded letters on the sign, row of plastic flowers out front. Folks in our county didn’t talk much about death, but everyone knew the Millers. Everyone. If anybody was going to believe in omens or bad luck, it’d be them.

But my dad? He couldn’t actually find a missing kid. Honestly, we’d probably have to pack up and skip town again.

I’d seen this pattern before. When things got too hot, or the lies got too big, we’d load up the van and disappear before dawn. I could already picture the boxes stacked by the door. That feeling of leaving behind another almost-home.

That day after school, I was in a foul mood. I’d finally gotten in with my classmates, put in a lot of work to be ringleader of that pack of little brats. Now, thinking we’d have to start drifting again, I was seriously bummed out. Man, it sucked.

It had taken me months to get them to stop calling me “new girl.” Only after that did they let me in on their secrets. I was finally invited to birthday parties, sleepovers, even the occasional game of kickball after school. The thought of losing all that—again—made my stomach twist.

But then, out of nowhere, my dad agreed to take the job.

He didn’t even hesitate. Just nodded, poured himself another drink, and told Jake Miller he’d do his best. Like it was nothing. I stood there in the doorway, mouth hanging open. My dad never took cases this big—not unless he was sure he could fake his way through.

Other people might not know, but I knew exactly what was up. Seriously, I could read him like a book. My dad was a con artist all the way down.

I’d watched him pull off more stunts than I could count, from fake exorcisms to fortune readings that made grown men cry. He was slick, all right. But this was a whole new level. Missing kid? That was dangerous territory, even for him.

When I was a kid, the movies he showed me most were those old VHS tapes of 80s exorcist flicks—zombies, ghost hunters, all starring that guy with the unibrow and the cross. My dad would pore over a battered little notebook, licking his fingers as he flipped through it, over and over. He picked up half-baked lines from movies, bought “Occult Guides” from flea markets, and scavenged an old compass—self-taught, self-made. Sometimes I wondered if he ever slept.

He’d sit me down on the shag carpet, popcorn in hand, and narrate every cheesy scene like it was the Bible or something. I learned early that half of his “rituals” were just movie quotes delivered with enough conviction to make folks shiver. His notebook was filled with scribbles, doodles, and copied spells from every pulp paperback he could find at garage sales. The compass? It barely worked, but it sure looked the part.

He was a total fake. But, damn, he looked the part—handsome features, that mystical vibe. There was something about the way he carried himself, too. Plus, he had only one good eye. The blind one, he kept covered most of the time. It was pure white, not a speck of color. He claimed that eye could see spirits. Honestly, it made the whole thing work.

If you caught him in the right light, with his robe and his props, he could’ve passed for a preacher or a TV psychic. That blind eye, though—it gave him an edge, made folks uneasy in just the right way. Sometimes I’d stand in front of the mirror, practicing my own spooky stares, wishing I could pull it off half as well as he did. Ha.

As my dad put it: the people who come to him already believe deep down. He just fans the flames. If you don’t believe, nothing he says will convince you.

He’d tell me, “Ellie, you can’t sell a miracle to someone who’s already given up hope. You just have to help them see what they want to see.” I’d nod, pretending to get it, but sometimes I wondered if that was just another one of his lines.

He liked doing house cleansings, reading fortunes, helping people dodge disasters. His specialty was reading women’s fortunes—love, children, how to get rid of their husbands’ mistresses. He said, “Women always want to know about the same stuff—kids and men. Easy to talk them around.”

He’d wink and say, “You listen long enough, you hear the same stories again and again. Folks want hope, or at least someone to blame.” One time, he told me about a woman convinced her husband’s mistress was cursed—she paid double, just for the peace of mind.

Me? I had this innocent, harmless little-girl face—couldn’t hurt a fly, or so everyone thought. I ran errands, gathered info, played the sidekick. But eventually, school caught up to me. When I turned nine, I couldn’t keep putting off school any longer. My dad couldn’t just keep teaching me to read and run scams. That’s when he finally settled down in a small Ohio town, rented a storefront, put on a purple velvet robe, and carried a folding fan. Called himself “Professor Sterling.”

That little storefront was sandwiched between a laundromat and a bait shop. The sign out front had gold letters painted on black glass, and the inside smelled like incense and lemon Pledge. For the first time, we had a place that felt like ours, even if it was just rented by the month. The purple robe was thrift store velvet. The fan? Just a souvenir from a tourist trap in Tennessee. But my dad wore them like they were worth a million bucks.

That was the end of my wandering childhood.

I got my own room, even if it was just a corner behind a curtain. We had a routine—breakfast at the diner on Main, homework at the counter, evenings spent listening to the radio. For the first time, I thought maybe we could stay put for a while.

We divided the shop—one side for business, one for living. He saw no more than five clients a day, by appointment only. Didn’t matter who you were, you had to wait at least half an hour outside before seeing my dad. No exceptions.

The waiting room had mismatched chairs, a chipped coffee table stacked with old Reader’s Digests. Folks would sit there, fidgeting, glancing at the clock, whispering about what they hoped to hear. Dad always said, the longer they wait, the more they want to believe.

He’d pinch his thumb and forefinger together and tell me, “Ellie, see? This is what you call ‘style’!” Like he was letting me in on a big secret.

He’d strut around the shop, robes swishing, and make a big show of opening the door just a crack to peek at the waiting clients. “Style, kiddo. They’ll pay twice as much if they think you’re too busy for them.” Then he’d wink, like we were in on the same joke.

People are funny that way—the more you limit your clients, the more “style” you have, the more impressive you seem. If you’re out there begging for business, nobody cares.

He’d tell me, “Never chase a mark. Let ‘em come to you... and they’ll bring their wallet, their secrets, and half their soul.” Folks would leave, clutching their lucky charms, convinced their lives were about to change.

Inside the partition, my dad made tea, lit candles, and played the part. Outside, I served coffee, kept my eyes and ears open—basically, I was his intel-gathering station, his “little ears.” Couldn’t have run the place without me, honestly.

I’d hand out instant coffee in chipped mugs, offer cookies, and listen to the gossip. Folks let things slip when they thought no one was listening. By the time they walked into my dad’s office, I’d already given him the rundown—who was cheating, who was broke, who was desperate. He always knew what to say.

He was the master scammer, I was the apprentice. The two of us made our living off deception.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake and wonder if we were bad people. But then I’d remember the look on folks’ faces when they left—hopeful, lighter. Like maybe things would get better.

When I got home, Aunt Marsha had already whipped up three dishes and a plate of fried peanuts. My dad’s blind eye was covered with a fancy eyepatch. His good eye was half-closed, savoring cheap whiskey like it was fine wine.

The house smelled like fried onions and old wood. Aunt Marsha had her hair up in a messy bun, humming along to some country song on the radio. My dad sat at the head of the table, acting like a king in his castle. But really, he was just enjoying the show.

My dad kept Aunt Marsha around for one reason—her mouth; she could tell you how many moles you had, who you’d slept with, how often your bed shook, just by chatting. Meanwhile, my dad, in the back room, watched everything through a hidden camera—he got the real story.

Aunt Marsha was the town’s unofficial news anchor. She knew everyone’s business before they did. She’d chatter about who was cheating, who was pregnant, who just got fired. My dad would just nod, soaking it all in, while pretending to be half-interested. The hidden camera? That was his secret weapon for spotting real trouble before it reached our door. Kept us a step ahead.

In just a year, my dad’s “Professor Sterling” act, combined with Aunt Marsha’s marketing, had made him famous in town. People said he was the real deal, heaven-sent. But only Aunt Marsha and I knew that aside from his good looks, everything else about him was fake. That was our little secret.

She’d brag to anyone who’d listen about his “powers,” and folks ate it up. There were always fresh flowers at the door, and someone was always dropping off a pie or a thank-you note. But when the lights went out and the shop was quiet, it was just the three of us, sharing secrets and leftovers.

I tossed my backpack aside and slouched, legs up on the chair. Glanced at the meatloaf, three-bean casserole, and pickled sausage with mustard greens on the table. My stomach rumbled.

The kitchen table was cluttered with salt shakers, ketchup bottles, and a half-finished crossword puzzle. I grabbed a soda from the fridge, popped the tab, and leaned back, surveying the spread. Aunt Marsha always cooked like she was feeding an army.

“Eating so well—what, is this our farewell dinner?”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked a little. I’d gotten used to these comfort meals right before another move. Made me nervous.

Aunt Marsha hurried me to wash up and served me mac and cheese. “Farewell? Tomorrow’s Friday. Your dad said he’s taking the day off. You’re going with him to the Millers’. He’s going to perform a ritual.”

She scooped a heaping pile of mac and cheese onto my plate, her gold bangles jangling. “Eat up, sweetheart. Big day tomorrow. You’re gonna need your strength.”

My spirits lifted. “So we’re not running this time?”

I tried not to sound too hopeful, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe, just maybe, we’d get to stay.

Aunt Marsha grinned, eyes nearly closed, and held up five fingers. “Run? This job—this one’s a big score.”

She wiggled her fingers, her rings catching the light. “Biggest payday yet, kiddo.”

My eyes widened. “Five hundred?”

I stared at her, fork halfway to my mouth. That was more than we usually made in a month.

She kept smiling.

She just kept grinning, not saying a word. The suspense was killing me.

My heart pounded. “No way—five thousand?”

My voice went up an octave. I couldn’t believe it. Five grand? For one job?

Aunt Marsha giggled. “Little rascal, look at you—aim higher. Fifty thousand!”

She let the number hang in the air, like she was announcing the lottery. I nearly dropped my fork.

Fifty thousand… fifty thousand!

I repeated it under my breath, trying to wrap my head around it. That was more money than I’d ever seen in one place. My dad’s biggest haul before this was maybe a few hundred, tops.

Damn—before, my dad would get maybe fifty or a hundred per job.

We’d scraped by on tips and luck for years. This was a whole new ballgame.

“This is different. The Millers have it rough. If they don’t find the kid, the whole family might as well be wiped out.”

Aunt Marsha’s tone softened, her smile fading just a little. She glanced at the clock, like she was counting down to something she couldn’t stop.

My dad didn’t even look at me, just focused on his food and drink. Aunt Marsha gazed at him with pure adoration. All year, every evening, she’d come over to cook, wash dishes, do laundry, clean the floor. Even a blind man could see what she wanted. But my dad accepted it all without a word—never promised, never refused.

It was like watching two people dance around each other, neither willing to make the first move. Aunt Marsha would hum and fuss, and my dad would just nod, letting her orbit him like a satellite. I rolled my eyes, but deep down, I kind of liked having her around.

Ugh. Scumbag.

I muttered it under my breath, but I couldn’t help smirking. My dad might’ve been a crook, but he was a charming one.

I stuffed a chunk of meatloaf in my mouth. “He really thinks he’s some savior come down to earth, huh? The town cops searched for over ten days and found nothing—how’s he going to find the kid?”

I chewed slowly, watching for any sign that my dad might have a real plan. But he just shrugged, as if the answer was floating somewhere out of reach.

Kyle Miller was the only kid from Miller Hollow at our school. Miller Hollow was up in the hills, but they had their own elementary and middle schools, pretty well-known. Still, Kyle biked two hours each way over mountain roads just to come to our run-down town school. I never understood why Jake Miller did that. If it weren’t for that long commute, maybe nothing would’ve happened…

Sometimes I’d see Kyle pedaling past our shop, hair sticking out from under his helmet, backpack bouncing. He always looked so determined, like nothing could stop him. I wondered what it was about our school that made him take that risk, day after day.

I felt a pang, picturing Kyle’s sweet face—big, bright eyes, a crescent-shaped smile, a dimple on his cheek. His dad doted on him; he always had the most pocket money, always got popsicles after school. He’d buy two, give one to me, cheeks red, saying he couldn’t finish both.

He was the kind of kid you couldn’t help but like.

Even the teachers went easy on him, and the lunch lady always gave him an extra cookie. Now, the thought of him being gone made my chest hurt in a way I couldn’t explain.

“Probably got grabbed by traffickers—who knows where he’s ended up.”

Aunt Marsha shook her head, lips pressed tight. She didn’t like to talk about the bad things that happened to kids, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

My dad finally looked at me and sighed. That look made my heart skip a beat. In his good eye, I saw a pain and compassion I couldn’t name.

For a second, he wasn’t the con artist or the showman—just a tired dad who’d seen too much. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but the words stuck in my throat.

After a long while, he set down his glass and forced a bitter smile. “If he really was trafficked, that’d almost be better…”

His words hung in the air, heavy as a storm.

Aunt Marsha set her fork down, and the only sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock. I shivered, suddenly cold.