Chapter 1: The Numbers Never Add Up

After my dad disappeared, I took over his little shop.

Every morning, I half expect Dad to walk in, humming off-key, and ask if I remembered to feed the cat. But it’s just me, the creaky floor, and his shadow.

The day I slid the rusty deadbolt and flipped the OPEN sign to face Main Street, a man walked in and hit me with a question so odd it felt like a riddle from an old detective flick.

"If one day, you suddenly realized that the number of people in your family—the ones you live with every day—doesn’t add up, what would you do?"

Our shop is a squat little place jammed between a Dairy Queen and a Jimmy John’s, right in the heart of old Main Street where the bricks are cracked and every window buzzes with neon at dusk. The AC sputtered overhead, barely cutting through the fried-food smell drifting in from Dairy Queen next door.

To the left is that Dairy Queen with the peeling letters; to the right, Jimmy John’s, where the delivery guys hustle past every hour, sandwich boxes in hand.

Sandwiched between is the faded, swinging sign for Harper’s Gem & Antique. The old script and chipped paint make it look like a relic from another era—a bit of the past clinging to a street that’s otherwise racing toward the future.

I’m perched behind the counter, picking at a cardboard tray of chicken nuggets, my caramel Frappuccino sweating onto a stack of old baseball cards.

I squint at the man across from me—he’s got that air of money about him, from the pressed suit to the sleek watch, and he carries himself like he’s used to getting what he wants.

Five minutes earlier, he’d stepped through the door and introduced himself as Derek Mason, said he was an old customer of Mr. Harper’s, dropped Councilman Grant’s name like a secret password.

"You ever flunk math class, Mr. Mason?" I ask, sipping my Frappuccino, flashing the kind of smile you use on regulars who forget your name.

Derek Mason freezes, confusion flickering in his eyes. He hesitates, then answers, still polite: "I teach advanced mathematics at a university."

He glances around, clearly wondering if he’s being pranked. "Does that have anything to do with this?"

"Not really, haha." I give a half-shrug, twisting my lips up in a wry grin. "You just said the numbers don’t add up—what exactly doesn’t match?"

"The number of bedrooms."

He stops, voice dipping lower, and for a moment, his carefully composed expression wavers with real uncertainty.

"I suddenly realized it last week.

"When I was discussing renovations with our designer, going over the blueprints, I remembered—there are seven bedrooms on the second floor.

"But we’ve always had eight people living there, one per room, and it’s always worked out. I thought maybe I’d lost my mind, so I went up and counted the rooms, one by one—seven. I checked the headcount at home—definitely eight.

"So, here’s the deal: eight people, each with their own room, house unchanged for years…"

He meets my eyes, and for a split second, pure terror ripples through his face, sharp enough to make me shiver. It’s the kind of look people get when reality slips sideways, and suddenly nothing feels safe.

"How is it possible that the numbers don’t add up?"

He murmurs that last line, like he’s afraid the walls are listening.

Outside, the music from the bar across the street pumps out classic rock, so loud it rattles the window glass and makes our shop feel like an island—quiet, untouched, a pocket of stillness in the Friday night chaos.

"No one else at home seems to have noticed. I’m scared to panic anyone, so I kept quiet. I heard Mr. Harper is the real deal, the kind of guy who handles the weird stuff, so I came here."

I sigh and shake my head, dragging my fingers through my hair.

"You’re outta luck. Mr. Harper’s busy. Door’s that way."

Derek Mason doesn’t flinch. He just nods, almost like he expected it. "Mr. Harper’s a legend. Never easy to track down."

He takes off his leather gloves—real supple, probably Italian—pulls out a heavy business card, and slides it across the glass counter.

"Here’s a $30,000 advance. I just need Mr. Harper to come take a look. Even if it’s nothing, consider it gas money. If he solves it, I’ll pay another $120,000."

Thirty grand? My heart nearly does a cartwheel. I keep my face cool. "Let’s go."

"Go where?"

"Your house."

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. "Aren’t you just the receptionist?"

I flash him a wide, easy grin, the kind that gets you out of parking tickets and into places you don’t belong.

"From now on, I’m Mr. Harper."