Chapter 1: Gold in the Snow

The day I lost my job, Ohio was buried in snow, and so was my future. The layoff landed like a sucker punch—Christmas lights blinking across the street while I stood in my apartment, wondering what came next. My breath fogged the glass, hands jammed in my pockets, trying not to panic as each snowflake blurred the world outside.

But after the company let me go, an itch of paranoia crept in—I couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching. At first, I blamed it on too much Speedway coffee and too little sleep. But every trip to Kroger or even just taking out the trash, I felt eyes on me—like someone was parked out on the curb, engine running, waiting for me to slip up.

The more I mulled it over, the less I believed the company’s excuse. Money troubles? Please. They must’ve dug up something they shouldn’t have.

I had no proof, just a gut feeling—the same instinct that keeps you from walking down a dark alley or trusting gas station sushi. My instincts screamed there was more to the story, and I couldn’t let it go.

Our real estate company was a no-name developer, barely a dozen employees. You could squeeze us all into one conference room, and some days it felt like we all lived in the breakroom, gnawing on off-brand bagels. The office was in a repurposed insurance agency—faded beige carpet, a sun-bleached Ohio State Buckeyes calendar from three years back, and the only thing slicker than the boss’s hair was his new F-150.

We tackled oddball tourism projects, always somewhere in the middle of nowhere. If you mapped Ohio’s cities and found the spot with the most soybeans and deer, that’s where we built. I used to joke with Jason, our engineer, that our buyers were either witness protection dropouts or folks obsessed with birdwatching.

Honestly, I never understood who bought those houses. The boss was loaded, though, and there were never any performance reviews. He’d roll up in a new Silverado every other month, didn’t care about receipts, and as long as you didn’t crash the company SUV, you could slack off with impunity.

With the market in the gutter the last couple years, I just coasted. Head down, paperwork shuffled, days blending together. My biggest worry was if the vending machine would eat my quarters—until December, anyway.

This year, we were all working on a vacation villa project in a mountain valley outside a little Ohio town. Picture: faded Main Street, one stoplight, a diner with the best pie for fifty miles, hills dusted with snow until March, and the gas station attendants calling you 'hon' as they ring up your coffee.

The company was laid-back, so whenever the higher-ups weren’t around, I’d sneak off fishing with Jason from engineering. We kept rods and a six-pack of Great Lakes in the back of his mud-caked Ford, and we had a secret spot on a little creek only locals knew. Sometimes we’d pull in more bluegill than emails.

That day, we’d just set up when Jason’s phone buzzed—work calling him back, pronto. Jason nudged me, grinning. "Bet you five bucks the fish are smarter than us today." I snorted, pretending not to worry about the work call buzzing in his pocket. He frowned at the screen, muttered about corporate timing, and the December wind whipped through our jackets. We hadn’t even cracked a beer.

I asked what was up. He shook his head—no clue, just that something happened at the site. His voice was tight, and for once, the easygoing Jason looked spooked. The way he slammed his tackle box into the truck said this was more than a busted water main.

Whatever happened, it could be huge—or nothing. We packed up and hustled back, Jason driving faster than usual, tires spitting gravel on the back road. Trees blurred by, and my stomach churned, like we were racing toward something we’d wish we hadn’t found.

We pulled up to the site and saw a crowd of workers clustered at the edge of a massive pit. It looked like a tailgate party gone wrong—hard hats, hi-vis vests, people on tiptoe, others shouting. Excitement—or panic—buzzed in the air.

Embarrassing as it is, that was my first time actually setting foot on the site. I’d always dodged visits—"That’s more your thing, right, Jason?"—but one look at that pit made my old excuses feel flimsy.

Not totally my fault—the company was chill about everything except site safety, which was managed obsessively. More warning signs than a gun range, and the project manager’s office always smelled like burnt coffee and fresh printer ink—a place where secrets brewed faster than rumors. Rumor was, he’d worked at a nuke plant, treated every dirt pile like it might go critical.

They fenced the site off tight—tall chain-link with barbed wire curling over the top. If zombies showed up, this was where I’d hide out. Anyone not in engineering had to fill out a mountain of paperwork just to get in. HR lost my site visit request once, and I never bothered to chase it.

We all worked around it, steering clear and letting the engineers slog through the mud.

But seeing the site for the first time, I was floored. Standing there, breath freezing on my scarf, the ground seemed to tilt. It looked less like construction, more like a History Channel special—digging for ancient bones or something.

This was supposed to be a mountain villa project—no basement, just cabins for city folks to play Colorado. Nothing that called for a pit so deep you’d need a ladder to see the bottom.

But here it was—a gigantic, gaping pit, like someone tried to hollow out the mountain. Dirt walls plunged deeper than I could see. The air was sharp with cold and something else—metallic, ancient, like the earth had coughed up a secret.

If you did the math, even if you built a villa in there, the roof wouldn’t peek above ground. It made no sense—unless you were building a supervillain lair or hiding something you never wanted found.

What the hell—was this an old Cold War bunker?

Maybe the boss watched too many Bond flicks. But the nervous, excited energy in the air made me think we’d stumbled onto something never meant to see daylight.

Suddenly, those luxury cars parked at the sales office—Mercedes, BMWs, city folks in Italian shoes—clicked in my head. The hair on my arms stood up.

But what had happened here? Judging by the grinning faces, the workers were thrilled, not freaked. Not an accident—more like they’d struck gold. Guys waved their phones, snapping pics. It looked like they’d won the lottery.

I grabbed a guy for the scoop. He leaned in, voice hushed. "No joke, man. Gold. Actual gold. The big bosses are about to lose their minds."

Holy crap, for real?

I thought he was kidding, but his wide eyes said otherwise. My heart did a backflip. Was this some lost Prohibition stash? A Civil War payroll buried in the hills? Suddenly, my boring job felt like an episode of 'Unsolved Mysteries.'

I elbowed in for a look, boots crunching on rock salt, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. I needed to see it—proof that something this wild was actually happening in sleepy Ohio.

Just as I glimpsed something shiny, Jason shoved me out. He looked pale, voice low. "Dude, what are you doing crowding around? Get out of here! The company’s security team is on the way, the project manager’s coming, and I heard the boss is heading over too."

I got it instantly. We were already slacking by fishing, and now we were front row at a possible crime scene. I nodded, heart pounding, and backed away.

We’d been caught slacking off, and now I’d landed right in the middle of trouble. Jason and I knew the rules: don’t be seen, don’t be heard, pray the cameras didn’t catch you.

If security reported us—even if we weren’t blamed for the mess—we’d be toast. My hands started to sweat inside my gloves.

I flashed Jason an OK and slipped out, cutting through the frozen parking lot, whistling like nothing had happened.

The rest of the day, the office buzzed like a hornet’s nest. Phones rang nonstop, unfamiliar faces darted in and out with folders and laptops. Even the usually bored receptionist looked rattled.

Black SUVs rolled up outside, men in expensive coats and serious faces filed in, ignoring our stares. The badges said they were company, but they felt like outsiders—heads high, talking in low, clipped tones. The rumor mill spun into overdrive.

Then came the order—stop all work, go home. The air snapped. HR went office to office, handing out paper notices. No warning, just "Pack up. Go home."

Most folks had no clue what was up—just secretly pleased. You could feel it—relief, a few high-fives, like a snow day. I kept my mouth shut, guessing it was about the site.

That night, I tried calling Jason for answers—voicemail, every time. Not like him. He always texted back. I searched the internet—no news, no rumors, nothing. It was like it never happened. I wondered if I’d dreamed it.

Next morning, HR called me into the conference room. The fluorescent lights flickered. Everyone looked exhausted, worried. It was dead quiet—no one talking, even the usually chatty engineers glued to their seats.

HR handed out forms—write down what you did yesterday, hour by hour, who you were with. It felt like a police lineup. My heart raced. They were checking if anyone had gone to the site.

I was in marketing, the only one from my department. No one to contradict my story. I wrote I’d gone to town for ad placements, came back to the office—boring as possible.

As long as Jason didn’t rat me out, I was safe. My hands shook as I handed in the form.

HR came back later, just nodded at me. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Then she dropped the bomb. She cleared her throat, glasses glinting. The company was shutting down—now. She said there’d been a minor engineering accident, project suspended, funds unrecoverable, company dissolved on the spot.

No warning, no goodbye party, just cold facts. Some jaws dropped.

We’d get N+5 severance—legal minimum plus five months. Huge payout. But we had to sign an NDA: break it, pay back triple. My pen hovered over the paper. Triple penalty. My stomach twisted—this was more than hush money. It was a warning.

They’d already bought plane tickets for everyone to return home—packing us off to the airport that afternoon. Who does that for a dozen people out of the blue?

The payout was generous, but the suddenness left everyone in shock. It was like winning the lottery, only to be told you couldn’t spend a dime or tell anyone you’d won.

I was the most confused of all. I kept waiting for someone to yell "April Fool’s," but the somber faces told me otherwise. Jason was still MIA, and I knew they’d found gold, not had an accident. My mind spun: Where was Jason? What was really going on?

Was the company just keeping it all for themselves? Corporate greed wouldn’t be a first. The more I thought, the angrier I got.

I slipped back to my apartment, double-checking the locks as soon as I got in, heart thumping. I opened my palm—a heavy chunk of gold I’d snatched during the chaos. For a heartbeat, my hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it—half from fear, half from the thrill of getting away with something forbidden. It was warm from my skin, rough and oddly shaped—definitely not a standard bar.

Since the company was so shady, I kept it as a souvenir. If they could fire me for nothing, I deserved something in return. I hid the gold at the back of my sock drawer, behind old tax forms and a couple of Buckeyes baseball cards.