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Synopsis
Freelance writer and long‑time Ben & Jerry’s addict Jaine Austen uncovers murderers on the mean streets of Beverly Hills, with a little help from her snarky cat, Prozac, in this witty mystery series from acclaimed TV comedy writer and novelist Laura Levine—a lighthearted treat for cat cozy fans and readers of Joanne Fluke, Miranda James, and Laura Childs.
What could be more idyllic than starting a new gig with an exclusive train ride from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara? Turns out, a whole lot. Jaine must figure out how to tolerate her client—Chip Miller, aka Iron Man, a wealthy gym chain owner—who Jaine soon discovers is a tyrant and a bully with an ego as pumped as his pecs.
Practically everyone on board seems to have it in for Chip—his dysfunctional family members, his beleaguered staff, even his supposed best buddy from the gym. So it’s no shocker when he’s found dead in his cabin. Unfortunately for Jaine, she’s the one who finds Chip’s body, leaving her DNA on the murder weapon, and making her a prime suspect in the police investigation.
Forced to save her own caboose, can Jaine chug on through an unexpected love connection and ID the killer—or has she finally reached the end of the line?
Release date: June 25, 2024
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 304
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Murder Buys a One-Way Ticket
Laura Levine
Some people sculpt their bodies into shape with Pilates. Others burn off unwanted calories in spin class. Still others run miles each day on the treadmill.
Don’t you just hate those people? As for me, whenever I feel like I should be exercising, I lie down until the feeling goes away.
Which is why I was surprised (shocked, really) to land a job ghostwriting a fitness guidebook.
It all started when I answered an online ad for a nonfiction writer. I’d almost forgotten I’d even applied for the job when, weeks later, I got an email from Chip Miller, owner of The Muscle Factory, a nationwide chain of gyms, asking me to come in for an interview.
My heart sank when I realized I’d be meeting up with a fitness guru, certain he’d take one look at my muscle-free bod and send me packing. But a job was a job, and I couldn’t afford to pass up an opportunity to earn some much-needed dinero.
So on the morning in question, after polishing off a cinnamon raisin bagel, slathered with butter and strawberry jam, I donned my go-to job interview outfit (skinny jeans, silk blouse, and blazer) and headed out into the living room.
“How do I look?” I asked my cat, Prozac, who was hard at work on the sofa, attacking an evil throw pillow from Planet Chenille.
She paused in her attack to shoot me a withering glare.
Like someone who should be staying home and giving her beloved cat a belly rub instead of traipsing off to a job interview.
If only I’d paid attention to her.
Instead, I grabbed my car keys and was soon tooling off in my ancient Corolla to meet up with Chip Miller at his McMansion in Bel Air—a palatial affair with towers and turrets and more wings than a flock of geese.
Think Windsor Castle with palm trees.
After parking my car in front of a six-car garage, I sucked in my gut and trekked over to an imposing front door with the initials “CM” carved into the woodwork. I rang the bell, setting off a series of cathedral-like chimes and, seconds later, was greeted by a rosy-cheeked maid in a floral apron who led me down a maze of corridors to Chip’s office.
Everything about the office seemed designed to intimidate: the massive desk, the hotel lobby–sized sofa and armchairs, the walls plastered with celebrity photos, and the boatload of trophies on display in a glass-enclosed case.
Dominating the scene was Chip Miller himself, a spray-tanned, sixtysomething guy in shorts and a tank top, running on a treadmill as he barked orders to some hapless soul at the other end of his Bluetooth.
“If enrollment isn’t up five percent next month, you’re history. I don’t care if you just had open-heart surgery. Get off your lazy butt and start hustling.”
“Jaine Austen here to see you,” said the maid when he’d finished his harangue.
Chip looked me up and down, not exactly radiating approval. I was all set to be summarily banished with a disparaging comment about my childbearing hips when he asked, “Want a wheatgrass smoothie?”
Yuck, no. If God had meant grass to be pureed in a blender, He’d have never invented the strawberry daiquiri.
“Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”
After dismissing his maid, Chip waved me to a seat, all the while pounding away on his treadmill.
I was getting exhausted just looking at him.
“Here’s the deal, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Under what feminist-free rock had this guy been hiding for the last decade?
“I need someone to help me write a fitness book.”
Just as I’d feared. Talk about being unqualified for the job. But in the interests of scoring a paycheck, I plastered on an enthusiastic smile.
“Sounds intriguing, Mr. Miller.”
“Call me Iron Man. Everyone does. Would you believe I’m sixty-three years old?”
Actually, I had no trouble believing it, thanks to the network of fine lines cross-hatching his spray tan—not to mention his thinning hair, dyed an unconvincing jet black.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” he beamed with pride. “I’ve got the body of a twenty-year-old.”
Better give it back, I felt like telling him. You’re getting it wrinkled.
Then Chip uttered the magic words that set my heart flip-flopping.
“The salary is twenty thousand dollars.”
“A fitness book! Really? How marvelous!”
Needless to say, I was no longer faking it.
“But before I can even consider hiring you,” Chip said, reeling me down from Cloud Nine, “I need to give you a little quiz.”
He then proceeded to bark out the following questions:
“Where are your deltoids?”
(No idea.)
“Your pecs?”
(No idea.)
“Your triceps?”
(Still no idea.)
I fumphered some answers, all of them wrong.
(Just FYI, your deltoids are nowhere near your big toe.)
Finally, he asked me, “What’s your favorite machine at the gym?”
“The one that sells Snickers,” I confessed.
What the heck? By this point, I was certain I was never going to get the gig.
But, much to my surprise, Chip beamed.
“Perfect! You’re my target audience. If I can get somebody like you to write convincingly about the power of exercise, I can get anyone to try it!”
Hallelujah! I was the couch potato of his dreams.
“So when can you start?” he asked.
“Yesterday!” I cried, unable to tamp down my joy, thinking of those twenty thousand smackeroos winging their way to my checking account.
“I’m taking my family on an overnight trip to Santa Barbara tomorrow. Cancel whatever plans you’ve got. You’re coming with us.”
No worries there. No plans to cancel, unless you count my standing delivery order from Dominos.
“We’re taking my private railway,” Chip said.
Private railway? Yowser, this guy was loaded.
“There’s nothing like seeing the country up close and personal, not looking down from a hunk of metal in the sky. We leave tomorrow afternoon at three from Union Station.”
“I’ll be there!”
But then I remembered a furry fly in my ointment: Prozac.
“I just have to find someone to look after my cat while I’m gone.”
No easy task. My fractious furball has been banned from every kennel in town and claws my apartment to shreds if I leave her alone for a night.
“No worries. Bring your cat along.”
“Really?”
“I insist!”
“I’m afraid she can be a bit of a handful.”
Understatement of the century. That cat of mine gives Typhoid Mary a run for her money.
“No worries. I love cats. See you tomorrow.”
And before I’d even gotten up from my seat, he was back on his Bluetooth, shouting orders at another hapless employee.
Somehow I managed to make my way through the maze of corridors to the front door. Outside, I practically skipped over to my Corolla, thrilled to have landed the gig, relieved that the only exercise I’d be getting would be banging away on my computer keyboard.
How wrong I was.
Little did I realize I’d soon be getting the workout of a lifetime, defending myself from a most inconvenient murder rap.
Why, oh, why had I agreed to bring Prozac to Santa Barbara?
Trying to get Pro in her cat carrier is like trying to get me in a pair of Spanx—pure torture, a nightmare of screaming, screeching, and yowling.
And Prozac was making quite a racket, too.
The carrier was a deluxe model, the Ritz-Carlton of cat carriers, with a faux-mink lining and a special tray for kitty treats.
But the way Pro was carrying on, you’d think I was trying to give her a root canal without novocaine.
Yeowww! Unhand me this minute or I’m calling the ASPCA!
The fur was still flying when my neighbor Lance showed up. Fortunately, he’d offered to drive us to Union Station. (I could just picture an Uber driver tossing me and my wailing kitty to the curb at the first red light.)
“What’s all the fuss?” Lance asked, strolling into my living room in jeans and a body-hugging tee, his blond curls moussed, as always, to perfection.
“This impossible cat is refusing to get in her carrier.”
“Prozac, impossible? Not my little sweet pea. C’mon, hon.”
With that, he picked her up and plopped her in the carrier, my duplicitous furball purring all the way.
Somehow she manages to turn on the charm for everyone but me.
“There,” he said. “Easy-peasy. I don’t understand why you’re always complaining about Pro. She’s a perfect angel.”
A plaintive meow from the carrier.
You have no idea how I suffer under her tyrannical rule!
What a performance. Somebody get that cat an Oscar.
“Ready to go?” Lance asked.
“Just as soon as I wash the blood from my cat scratches.”
Once my wounds had been disinfected, we made our way down the front path of the duplex Lance and I share on the outskirts of Beverly Hills.
Lance’s bright red Mini Cooper was parked out front, and before long, we were whizzing along the freeway, Prozac curled up in her carrier in the back seat, docile as a geisha.
“Lucky you,” Lance said, “heading off on a private railway to Santa Barbara, while I’m stuck here in town shoving bunions into Ferragamos.”
The bunions to which he referred belong to the wealthy women who shop at Neiman Marcus, where Lance toils in the women’s shoe department.
“So what’s this job all about, anyway?”
“Chip Miller, owner of The Muscle Factory, has hired me to write a fitness book.”
“You? Write a fitness book?” he cackled. “That’s like asking Prozac to write a book about quantum physics.”
An indignant meow from the back seat.
Hey, I could do it if I had opposable thumbs!
“For your information,” I huffed, “Chip’s very pumped about me. He’s certain I’ve got what it takes to do the job.”
Needless to say, I didn’t tell him the part about how, as a confirmed couch potato, I was Chip’s target audience.
“So, what’s up with you?” I asked, eager to stave off a lecture about my nonexistent exercise routine.
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I’ve discovered a terrific way to meet boatloads of wealthy, sophisticated, urbane men.”
“Move to San Francisco?”
“No, join the Empire Club.”
“The Empire Club?”
“I’ve told you about it, haven’t I?”
“Not that I recall.”
Of course, it’s very possible he told me, but I often tune Lance out when he’s babbling about his search for Mr. Right—a search I’ve long abandoned after my disastrous marriage to my ex-husband (otherwise known as The Blob) and enough bad dates to qualify for a spot in the Guinness Book of Records.
“It’s a private social club that just opened in West Hollywood,” Lance was saying. “Lots of wealthy guys belong. They’ve got a dining room, spa, gym, and infinity pool—and they’re always having parties and wine tastings. It’s pricey, but definitely worth the investment.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“I can’t join unless I get someone to sponsor me. My boss at Neiman’s is a member, and I’ve been hinting about how much I’d like to join, but so far, I’ve been getting nowhere, no matter how much I try to ingratiate myself with the guy.”
Which is saying plenty. Lance practically has a PhD in bootlicking.
“That’s too bad,” I said
“No worries,” Lance said. “I’ll think of something.”
Indeed he would. Something that would wind up driving me nuts, but I’ll save that godawful adventure for another chapter.
The minute Lance dropped us off at Union Station, Prozac reverted to prima-donna mode, yowling at the top of her lungs.
As I made my way across the cavernous Art Deco waiting room, Pro’s screams echoing off the walls, people stopped to give me the stink eye—on the verge, no doubt, of reporting me to the pet police.
Even toddlers in the middle of their own tantrums paused to gaze at Prozac in admiration, clearly impressed by her lung power.
Finally, I arrived at the track where Chip’s private railway cars had been attached to an Amtrak train. It was easy to spot Chip’s three cars. While the rest of the train was an industrial gray, the last three cars were painted a deep magenta, with IRON MAN EXPRESS lettered in gold across each of them.
Thanks to this morning’s cat carrier debacle, I was running a tad late and showed up at the train a few minutes after three.
A cute young steward was standing with a clipboard at the steps of the middle car.
“Welcome to the Iron Man Express!”
Tall and lanky, with the most appealing set of laugh lines, he had the good looks of your typical boy next door, assuming the boy next door was a young William Holden.
“So sorry I’m late. I had some trouble getting my cat into her carrier this morning. She can be quite the drama queen.”
Of course, now that a cute guy had appeared on the scene, Pro was back in geisha mode, all big green eyes and soft meows.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m Sean, and I’ll be your steward for the trip,” the cutie-pie said, checking his clipboard. “You must be Jaine Austen.”
“Right.”
“Love your books.”
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one, I’d be living in a villa in Saint-Tropez. Usually I try not to groan. But somehow when Sean said it, it seemed funny. Maybe it was the wink that came with it.
And I wasn’t the only one impressed.
In her carrier, Pro was now purring her little heart out.
Hubba-hubba, hot stuff.
“And who might this be?”
She gazed up at him, batting her big green eyes.
Your future significant other if you play your cards right.
Flashing her a grin she didn’t deserve, Sean took my bag and led us up the steps into the train.
“This is the sleeper car,” he said, as we . . .
Don’t you just hate those people? As for me, whenever I feel like I should be exercising, I lie down until the feeling goes away.
Which is why I was surprised (shocked, really) to land a job ghostwriting a fitness guidebook.
It all started when I answered an online ad for a nonfiction writer. I’d almost forgotten I’d even applied for the job when, weeks later, I got an email from Chip Miller, owner of The Muscle Factory, a nationwide chain of gyms, asking me to come in for an interview.
My heart sank when I realized I’d be meeting up with a fitness guru, certain he’d take one look at my muscle-free bod and send me packing. But a job was a job, and I couldn’t afford to pass up an opportunity to earn some much-needed dinero.
So on the morning in question, after polishing off a cinnamon raisin bagel, slathered with butter and strawberry jam, I donned my go-to job interview outfit (skinny jeans, silk blouse, and blazer) and headed out into the living room.
“How do I look?” I asked my cat, Prozac, who was hard at work on the sofa, attacking an evil throw pillow from Planet Chenille.
She paused in her attack to shoot me a withering glare.
Like someone who should be staying home and giving her beloved cat a belly rub instead of traipsing off to a job interview.
If only I’d paid attention to her.
Instead, I grabbed my car keys and was soon tooling off in my ancient Corolla to meet up with Chip Miller at his McMansion in Bel Air—a palatial affair with towers and turrets and more wings than a flock of geese.
Think Windsor Castle with palm trees.
After parking my car in front of a six-car garage, I sucked in my gut and trekked over to an imposing front door with the initials “CM” carved into the woodwork. I rang the bell, setting off a series of cathedral-like chimes and, seconds later, was greeted by a rosy-cheeked maid in a floral apron who led me down a maze of corridors to Chip’s office.
Everything about the office seemed designed to intimidate: the massive desk, the hotel lobby–sized sofa and armchairs, the walls plastered with celebrity photos, and the boatload of trophies on display in a glass-enclosed case.
Dominating the scene was Chip Miller himself, a spray-tanned, sixtysomething guy in shorts and a tank top, running on a treadmill as he barked orders to some hapless soul at the other end of his Bluetooth.
“If enrollment isn’t up five percent next month, you’re history. I don’t care if you just had open-heart surgery. Get off your lazy butt and start hustling.”
“Jaine Austen here to see you,” said the maid when he’d finished his harangue.
Chip looked me up and down, not exactly radiating approval. I was all set to be summarily banished with a disparaging comment about my childbearing hips when he asked, “Want a wheatgrass smoothie?”
Yuck, no. If God had meant grass to be pureed in a blender, He’d have never invented the strawberry daiquiri.
“Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”
After dismissing his maid, Chip waved me to a seat, all the while pounding away on his treadmill.
I was getting exhausted just looking at him.
“Here’s the deal, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Under what feminist-free rock had this guy been hiding for the last decade?
“I need someone to help me write a fitness book.”
Just as I’d feared. Talk about being unqualified for the job. But in the interests of scoring a paycheck, I plastered on an enthusiastic smile.
“Sounds intriguing, Mr. Miller.”
“Call me Iron Man. Everyone does. Would you believe I’m sixty-three years old?”
Actually, I had no trouble believing it, thanks to the network of fine lines cross-hatching his spray tan—not to mention his thinning hair, dyed an unconvincing jet black.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” he beamed with pride. “I’ve got the body of a twenty-year-old.”
Better give it back, I felt like telling him. You’re getting it wrinkled.
Then Chip uttered the magic words that set my heart flip-flopping.
“The salary is twenty thousand dollars.”
“A fitness book! Really? How marvelous!”
Needless to say, I was no longer faking it.
“But before I can even consider hiring you,” Chip said, reeling me down from Cloud Nine, “I need to give you a little quiz.”
He then proceeded to bark out the following questions:
“Where are your deltoids?”
(No idea.)
“Your pecs?”
(No idea.)
“Your triceps?”
(Still no idea.)
I fumphered some answers, all of them wrong.
(Just FYI, your deltoids are nowhere near your big toe.)
Finally, he asked me, “What’s your favorite machine at the gym?”
“The one that sells Snickers,” I confessed.
What the heck? By this point, I was certain I was never going to get the gig.
But, much to my surprise, Chip beamed.
“Perfect! You’re my target audience. If I can get somebody like you to write convincingly about the power of exercise, I can get anyone to try it!”
Hallelujah! I was the couch potato of his dreams.
“So when can you start?” he asked.
“Yesterday!” I cried, unable to tamp down my joy, thinking of those twenty thousand smackeroos winging their way to my checking account.
“I’m taking my family on an overnight trip to Santa Barbara tomorrow. Cancel whatever plans you’ve got. You’re coming with us.”
No worries there. No plans to cancel, unless you count my standing delivery order from Dominos.
“We’re taking my private railway,” Chip said.
Private railway? Yowser, this guy was loaded.
“There’s nothing like seeing the country up close and personal, not looking down from a hunk of metal in the sky. We leave tomorrow afternoon at three from Union Station.”
“I’ll be there!”
But then I remembered a furry fly in my ointment: Prozac.
“I just have to find someone to look after my cat while I’m gone.”
No easy task. My fractious furball has been banned from every kennel in town and claws my apartment to shreds if I leave her alone for a night.
“No worries. Bring your cat along.”
“Really?”
“I insist!”
“I’m afraid she can be a bit of a handful.”
Understatement of the century. That cat of mine gives Typhoid Mary a run for her money.
“No worries. I love cats. See you tomorrow.”
And before I’d even gotten up from my seat, he was back on his Bluetooth, shouting orders at another hapless employee.
Somehow I managed to make my way through the maze of corridors to the front door. Outside, I practically skipped over to my Corolla, thrilled to have landed the gig, relieved that the only exercise I’d be getting would be banging away on my computer keyboard.
How wrong I was.
Little did I realize I’d soon be getting the workout of a lifetime, defending myself from a most inconvenient murder rap.
Why, oh, why had I agreed to bring Prozac to Santa Barbara?
Trying to get Pro in her cat carrier is like trying to get me in a pair of Spanx—pure torture, a nightmare of screaming, screeching, and yowling.
And Prozac was making quite a racket, too.
The carrier was a deluxe model, the Ritz-Carlton of cat carriers, with a faux-mink lining and a special tray for kitty treats.
But the way Pro was carrying on, you’d think I was trying to give her a root canal without novocaine.
Yeowww! Unhand me this minute or I’m calling the ASPCA!
The fur was still flying when my neighbor Lance showed up. Fortunately, he’d offered to drive us to Union Station. (I could just picture an Uber driver tossing me and my wailing kitty to the curb at the first red light.)
“What’s all the fuss?” Lance asked, strolling into my living room in jeans and a body-hugging tee, his blond curls moussed, as always, to perfection.
“This impossible cat is refusing to get in her carrier.”
“Prozac, impossible? Not my little sweet pea. C’mon, hon.”
With that, he picked her up and plopped her in the carrier, my duplicitous furball purring all the way.
Somehow she manages to turn on the charm for everyone but me.
“There,” he said. “Easy-peasy. I don’t understand why you’re always complaining about Pro. She’s a perfect angel.”
A plaintive meow from the carrier.
You have no idea how I suffer under her tyrannical rule!
What a performance. Somebody get that cat an Oscar.
“Ready to go?” Lance asked.
“Just as soon as I wash the blood from my cat scratches.”
Once my wounds had been disinfected, we made our way down the front path of the duplex Lance and I share on the outskirts of Beverly Hills.
Lance’s bright red Mini Cooper was parked out front, and before long, we were whizzing along the freeway, Prozac curled up in her carrier in the back seat, docile as a geisha.
“Lucky you,” Lance said, “heading off on a private railway to Santa Barbara, while I’m stuck here in town shoving bunions into Ferragamos.”
The bunions to which he referred belong to the wealthy women who shop at Neiman Marcus, where Lance toils in the women’s shoe department.
“So what’s this job all about, anyway?”
“Chip Miller, owner of The Muscle Factory, has hired me to write a fitness book.”
“You? Write a fitness book?” he cackled. “That’s like asking Prozac to write a book about quantum physics.”
An indignant meow from the back seat.
Hey, I could do it if I had opposable thumbs!
“For your information,” I huffed, “Chip’s very pumped about me. He’s certain I’ve got what it takes to do the job.”
Needless to say, I didn’t tell him the part about how, as a confirmed couch potato, I was Chip’s target audience.
“So, what’s up with you?” I asked, eager to stave off a lecture about my nonexistent exercise routine.
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I’ve discovered a terrific way to meet boatloads of wealthy, sophisticated, urbane men.”
“Move to San Francisco?”
“No, join the Empire Club.”
“The Empire Club?”
“I’ve told you about it, haven’t I?”
“Not that I recall.”
Of course, it’s very possible he told me, but I often tune Lance out when he’s babbling about his search for Mr. Right—a search I’ve long abandoned after my disastrous marriage to my ex-husband (otherwise known as The Blob) and enough bad dates to qualify for a spot in the Guinness Book of Records.
“It’s a private social club that just opened in West Hollywood,” Lance was saying. “Lots of wealthy guys belong. They’ve got a dining room, spa, gym, and infinity pool—and they’re always having parties and wine tastings. It’s pricey, but definitely worth the investment.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“I can’t join unless I get someone to sponsor me. My boss at Neiman’s is a member, and I’ve been hinting about how much I’d like to join, but so far, I’ve been getting nowhere, no matter how much I try to ingratiate myself with the guy.”
Which is saying plenty. Lance practically has a PhD in bootlicking.
“That’s too bad,” I said
“No worries,” Lance said. “I’ll think of something.”
Indeed he would. Something that would wind up driving me nuts, but I’ll save that godawful adventure for another chapter.
The minute Lance dropped us off at Union Station, Prozac reverted to prima-donna mode, yowling at the top of her lungs.
As I made my way across the cavernous Art Deco waiting room, Pro’s screams echoing off the walls, people stopped to give me the stink eye—on the verge, no doubt, of reporting me to the pet police.
Even toddlers in the middle of their own tantrums paused to gaze at Prozac in admiration, clearly impressed by her lung power.
Finally, I arrived at the track where Chip’s private railway cars had been attached to an Amtrak train. It was easy to spot Chip’s three cars. While the rest of the train was an industrial gray, the last three cars were painted a deep magenta, with IRON MAN EXPRESS lettered in gold across each of them.
Thanks to this morning’s cat carrier debacle, I was running a tad late and showed up at the train a few minutes after three.
A cute young steward was standing with a clipboard at the steps of the middle car.
“Welcome to the Iron Man Express!”
Tall and lanky, with the most appealing set of laugh lines, he had the good looks of your typical boy next door, assuming the boy next door was a young William Holden.
“So sorry I’m late. I had some trouble getting my cat into her carrier this morning. She can be quite the drama queen.”
Of course, now that a cute guy had appeared on the scene, Pro was back in geisha mode, all big green eyes and soft meows.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m Sean, and I’ll be your steward for the trip,” the cutie-pie said, checking his clipboard. “You must be Jaine Austen.”
“Right.”
“Love your books.”
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one, I’d be living in a villa in Saint-Tropez. Usually I try not to groan. But somehow when Sean said it, it seemed funny. Maybe it was the wink that came with it.
And I wasn’t the only one impressed.
In her carrier, Pro was now purring her little heart out.
Hubba-hubba, hot stuff.
“And who might this be?”
She gazed up at him, batting her big green eyes.
Your future significant other if you play your cards right.
Flashing her a grin she didn’t deserve, Sean took my bag and led us up the steps into the train.
“This is the sleeper car,” he said, as we . . .
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Murder Buys a One-Way Ticket
Laura Levine
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