Chapter 2 - THE WAGES OF DECEIT

Monday morning arrived with a brutal, freezing rain that rattled the windowpanes of Grace’s apartment.

She hadn’t slept. She had spent the weekend packing her meager belongings into three cardboard boxes. She had thirty-two dollars. It wasn't enough for a motel. It wasn't enough for a deposit. She would have to go to the women’s shelter downtown and hope they had an open cot.

At 8:00 AM sharp, a heavy, aggressive pounding rattled her front door.

“Morgan! Open up! I know you’re in there!”

It was Mr. Henderson, the building landlord. A man who smelled perpetually of stale cigars and cheap cologne, who took pleasure in the misery of his tenants.

Grace unlocked the door, keeping the chain fastened. “Mr. Henderson. The eviction says I have until noon.”

“I’m changing the locks at nine,” Henderson sneered, shoving his thick face into the crack of the door. “You owe me three months' back rent, you old bat. I got a new tenant willing to pay double. Pack your trash and get out, or I’m throwing it out the window.”

“Please,” Grace said softly, her pride crumbling. “It’s freezing out there. Just give me until noon to find a truck.”

“You have five minutes,” Henderson barked, kicking the doorframe. “Five minutes, or I call the cops for trespassing!”

He stomped away down the hall.

Grace closed her eyes, a single tear escaping. She undid the chain, picked up her lightest box, and prepared to face the cold.

As she pulled the door open, she heard heavy footsteps marching up the wooden stairs. Not just one person. Many.

“Hey! You can’t be up here!” Henderson’s voice echoed from the stairwell, suddenly laced with fear. “Who the hell are you people?”

“Remove him,” a cold, familiar voice ordered.

Grace dropped her box.

Three men in impeccable dark suits rounded the corner. Two of them grabbed the struggling, swearing landlord by his armpits and carried him bodily down the stairs.

The third man walked down the dingy, flickering hallway. He was wearing a custom navy overcoat, his dark hair damp from the rain. He stopped in front of Grace’s open door.

Ethan Caldwell looked at the peeling paint, the lack of heating, the three pathetic cardboard boxes. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.