Las Vegas in July resembles a giant circuit board scorched red-hot by the desert sun yet forcibly cooled by the city's lights. The heat of the day lingers in the crevices of concrete and glass, while the night's clamor eagerly takes over everything. Neon lights form the city's tireless veins, pulsing along the Las Vegas Strip and transforming names like "Caesars Palace," "The Venetian," and "The Mirage" into miniature dream kingdoms. The air mingled the coolness of air-conditioning exhaust, cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent—sweet, cloying, and decaying—belonging to money and desire.
Lillian Harmon—a name belonging to a small town in Arizona, to a man named Frank Harmon, now as distant to her as a past life—tucked her thin trench coat, wrinkled from being crumpled on the Greyhound bus, tighter around her as she walked across the gleaming marble floor of the Lady Luck Casino.
The Fortunate Lady. What an ironic name, she thought.
This place was a world apart from the outside. The air conditioning blasted so cold it made goosebumps rise on her bare forearms. A massive crystal chandelier illuminated every detail, leaving nothing hidden. The carpet was a rich, ornate Persian design, its sound-absorbing properties swallowing most ambient noise, leaving only a low, persistent hum—the casino's signature soundtrack woven from the shuffling of thousands of chips, the whirring of roulette wheels, the electronic bleeps of slot machines, and the occasional bursts of cheers or sighs.
She drifted aimlessly like a ghost. Her gaze swept across the green baize tables, watching faces shift under the overhead lights—greed, tension, ecstasy, despair. Most men wore polo shirts or slightly too-tight suits; women sparkled with jewelry or wore cheap, revealing outfits. Enveloped by this meticulously designed space, stimulated by the relentless, oxygen-rich air, they believed they were chasing fortune. In truth, they were merely nutrients awaiting digestion and absorption within this vast digestive system.
Three days ago, she'd fled that house in Mesa, Arizona—reeking of beer and fists—with a backpack stuffed with a few changes of clothes and two hundred thirty-seven dollars in cash. Frank's roar still echoed in her ears. Beneath her left ribcage, where Frank's boot had struck, a small patch throbbed faintly in the air conditioning. It wasn't phantom pain, but a real, dull reminder.
She needed money. Fast money. The cash in her backpack wouldn't even cover a week's rent at the shabbiest motel. She'd tried restaurant jobs, but they demanded Social Security cards and ID—and she, a runaway Mrs. Harmon with no decent work history, had nothing to offer. Las Vegas, that legendary place where fortunes were made overnight and lost just as fast, became the only cliffside crevice she could imagine clinging to in her desperation.
But she didn't even have the right to jump. The casino needed chips, and she couldn't afford to exchange even the smallest denomination.
Her ankles ached slightly. She turned into a corridor connecting the main hall to the side lounge area, where the lighting was dimmer and fewer people lingered. Perhaps she could go to the restroom, splash cold water on her face, and think about her next move—if there was one. As she hurried along, head down, trying to avoid a waiter carrying an empty tray, the tip of her shoe struck something. A small, hard object rolled across the plush carpet surface and came to rest at her feet.
She stopped and looked down.
A chip.
Lying alone on the dark red carpet, it resembled a strange coin.