{Hailey’s Pov}
It really was a bowling alley. In my house. There was a bowling alley in my house.
As promised, there were “only” four lanes, but otherwise, it had everything you’d expect from an actual bowling alley. Ball returns. Pin-setters on each lane. A touch screen to set up the games. And fifty-five-inch monitors overhead to keep track of your score. Emblazoned on all of it—the balls, the lanes, the screens—was an elaborate letter L.
I tried not to take that as a reminder that none of this was supposed to be mine.
Instead, I focused on choosing the right ball. The right shoes—because there were at least forty pairs lined up on a rack to the side. Who the hell needs forty pairs of bowling shoes?
Tapping the touchscreen, I typed in my initials. HMV. An instant later, bright text
