Chapter 2

The rain was coming down in freezing, violent sheets by the time I reached my apartment building. Water dripped from my worn-out coat onto the cracked linoleum of the lobby.

Marty, my landlord, was waiting by the door with an expectant look.

"Today's gig go smooth?" he asked, rubbing his fingers together.

I unzipped my duffel bag. I pulled out half of the cash I had just earned from the funeral home. I slapped the crumpled bills into his palm. Every dollar was earned by scrubbing blood and sewing skin.

He was the one who hooked me up with the mortuary job. Splitting my income with him fifty-fifty every shift was my ongoing "thank you" fee.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Marty grunted, thumbing through the cash with a greedy smirk.

I didn't reply. I turned and pushed through the heavy fire door toward the stairwell. The bottom hinge was broken. It didn't latch shut behind me.

I took exactly two steps up the concrete stairs when a loud ringtone cut through the quiet lobby.

"Hey, Ethan," Marty’s voice echoed through the crack in the door.

My foot froze on the third step.

"Yeah, yeah. The blood-sucker just paid up," Marty laughed. "Squeezed her dry."

I held my breath. I pressed my ear against the cold steel frame of the door.

"Raise the rent?" Marty asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Are you sure, man? She’s already eating instant noodles every night. I think she’s skipping meals to pay for your meds."

A pause. Marty snorted loudly.

"A fifty percent hike? Damn, you're brutal. But I get it. Keep her broke so she can't afford to propose to you, right? Smart move, Major Hale. A guy in your position can't be tied down by a mortician."

My stomach violently twisted.

Propose?

Just last week, I had hinted to Ethan that once his "treatment" was over, we could finally go to City Hall. He had looked so panicked, coughing up fake blood into a napkin. I thought it was because he felt inadequate. I thought he was just insecure about his illness.

He was just buying time.

"Hey, thanks for the wire transfer, by the way," Marty continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seventy-two grand split between me, Dr. Whitmore, and the rest of the crew? You didn't have to do that."

The concrete wall spun around me.

Seventy-two thousand dollars.

Three weeks ago, I drained my secondary savings account. Seventy-two thousand dollars. I wired it directly to Ethan’s "Swiss specialist" for an experimental lung transplant protocol. It was every dime I had saved over five long years. Every skipped meal, every sold pint of plasma, every sleepless night.

It wasn't a specialist.

It was a bonus pool.

He took my blood money and tipped his accomplices for playing their parts. He paid them with my life.

"Alright, man. Enjoy your night with Sloane," Marty chuckled. "I'll post the eviction notice tomorrow if she doesn't cough up the new rent."

The call ended.

I didn't cry. The tears simply wouldn't come. Instead, a terrifying, absolute calm washed over me. The kind of cold precision I felt right before making the first incision on a Jane Doe.

I walked up to the fourth floor. I unlocked unit 4B.

The apartment smelled like mildew and desperation. Ethan’s dirty socks were still kicked into the corner. His empty coffee mug stained the cheap countertop.

I walked straight into the bedroom. I grabbed a small duffel bag.

I didn't pack the photos. I didn't pack the fake love letters.

I threw in three pairs of jeans, a few shirts, and my laptop.

I walked back to the kitchen counter. I looked down at my left hand. The cheap, plastic alloy ring dug into my skin, turning my finger green.

I pulled it off. I dropped it into his dirty coffee mug. It landed with a hollow clink.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out.

I marched down the stairs and pushed through the front doors into the pouring rain.

I didn't get three steps before I saw it.

A sleek, black Maybach pulled up to the curb, its wide tires hissing against the wet pavement.

The rear door popped open.

Ethan stumbled out.

He leaned heavily against the car door, clutching his chest. His face was deathly pale. He was doing his signature "dying man" hunch, coughing violently into his sleeve.

"Elena!" he gasped, his voice a perfect, raspy whisper. "Baby... what are you doing out here in the rain?"

I stopped. I stared at him. The sheer audacity of his performance was almost impressive. If I hadn't stood outside room 302 an hour ago, I would have rushed over to catch him.

"I... I went out to the pharmacy to get my painkillers," Ethan panted, taking a weak, trembling step toward me. "The storm caught me. I couldn't breathe, Elena. I thought I was going to die on the street."

He pointed a shaking finger back at the Maybach.

"Luckily, some good Samaritans saw me. They gave me a ride home."

The Maybach's engine purred like a massive, satisfied beast.

A chauffeur in a tailored suit stepped out holding a massive black umbrella. He opened the passenger door.

High heels clicked against the wet asphalt.

A woman stepped out. Immaculate. Stunning. Not a single drop of rain dared to touch her designer trench coat.

Sloane Bennett.

"Are you alright, Ethan?" Sloane asked. Her tone was dripping with fake, polite concern. She didn't even look at me. "Make sure you get inside quickly. You don't look well."

"Thank you, ma'am," Ethan coughed into his fist, playing the tragic hero. "I owe you my life."

I watched the exchange. It was a masterclass in deception. They were putting on a show right in front of my face.

But my eyes weren't on Ethan anymore. My gaze was locked on Sloane.

Specifically, on her neck.

A silver gavel pendant rested against her collarbone.

I stopped breathing.

The streetlights caught the flash of her wrist as she adjusted her coat. A vintage, platinum-set diamond bracelet.

My mother’s heirlooms.

Three years ago, Ethan's "condition" crashed. He needed an emergency lung bypass. I didn't have the cash.

I took the only things my mother had left me—her judicial gavel pendant and her wedding bracelet. I cried for two days. Ethan held me, crying with me, swearing he would buy them back for me one day.

He arranged a "private collector" who paid me pennies on the dollar to speed up the sale. I sold my family legacy to save his life.

And all this time, the "private collector" was Ethan.

He took my mother's jewelry and draped it over his mistress.

Five years. A giant, suffocating, meticulously crafted scam.

"Elena? Baby?" Ethan reached out, his hand trembling. He finally noticed the duffel bag. "Why do you have a bag? Where are you going?"

I didn't look at him.

I stepped around his outstretched hand. I walked straight toward the umbrella.

The chauffeur moved to block me, but Sloane waved him off with a smirk. She looked at me like I was trash blown in from the gutter.

"Can I help you?" Sloane asked, her voice crisp and condescending.

I stopped inches from her face. The smell of her expensive perfume mixed with the rain.

I reached out my hand, palm up.

"My mother's heirlooms," I said, my voice dead and cold. "Give them back."

Previous Chapter
Next Chapter