Then I step outside into the July heat, where the air is already thick enough to chew, and I climb into my rust-pocked Hyundai that smells vaguely of crayon and lost hope.
I drive to evict a stranger.
Because morality doesn’t pay for rent.
Because being a good person is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
Because this is survival.
And because I love my daughter more than I hate myself.
Downtown Collinsville rolls into view like a memory someone keeps trying to repaint. I’ve lived here my whole life, and yet every time I drive through the city center, it feels a little lessmine. The buildings still wear their bones proud—ornate cast iron balconies, weathered red brick, wide storefronts with names in curlicue hand-paint—but the soul is bleeding out. It’s like watching your grandmother’s face fade behind heavy makeup, the kind that makes her look more porcelain than person.
I park the Hyundai two blocks away because I can’t stand to pull up right in front of the crime scene. That’s what it feels like. I know the tenant. Everyone does. Mr. Albert, the accordion guy. Always on the bench near the festival plaza, playing old Italian ballads for loose change and smiles. He’s got arthritis so bad he can’t play anymore, but he still wears his little newsboy capand nods like he’s conducting the traffic. Sixty-two years old and barely scraping by. Now, because some spreadsheet somewhere decided his lease wasn't profitable enough, I’m supposed to kick him out of the only home he’s had for three decades.
I hate this part of the job.
No—I loathe it.
The clipboard feels like a weapon in my hands. A paper shield against the guilt gnawing at my gut.
I force my feet forward, up the cracked stone steps of the four-plex where Mr. Albert lives. It smells like mildew and cigarette ash—familiar scents that should comfort but don’t. The contractors are already here, leaning against their van in steel-toed boots and neon vests, cracking jokes I don’t care enough to understand. One of them, a wiry guy with a jawline like a meat cleaver, raises an eyebrow at me.
“You Malone?”
“Yeah.”
“Fourth unit on the left. Old guy’s already packin’. Kinda sad, honestly.”
I grit my teeth. “Just change the locks when I tell you.”
“Hey, no problem. You’re the boss.”
I’mnotthe boss. Lipnicky is.
And speak of the devil.
He’s standing halfway down the sidewalk, immaculate as ever in a tailored gray suit that looks like it costs more than my entire car. Wire-rimmed glasses catch the sun. His hair is combed in perfect strands that never seem to move, like a wax figure brought to life and programmed forrespectful menace. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t call out. Just watches. Hands clasped behind his back, head slightly tilted like he’s admiring a museum piece.
Or maybe a grave marker.
I turn my eyes away before I say something I’ll regret and head to the door.
Unit 4C.
The buzzer hasn’t worked in years, so I knock—three soft raps, more apology than command.
After a pause, I hear shuffling, then the soft clink of a chain being unlatched.
The door opens an inch.
Mr. Albert peers out. His face is lined like riverstone, gray stubble on a sunken jaw, eyes dulled with the kind of tired that doesn’t sleep off. He sees me and sighs, long and low.
“Miss Malone,” he says, voice rasped but warm. “Knew you’d come. You always do.”
“Mr. Albert…” I can’t finish the sentence. I hold up the clipboard like a cross against vampires.
“I got the notice,” he says before I can explain. “Don’t blame you. You got a kid. World don’t make it easy for single moms.”
