“You can’t—” My voice broke. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“Neither did you. But here we are.” He smiled, all teeth. No warmth. No humanity.
“Please.” I hated begging, loathed how small I sounded. “Please don’t hurt him. I’ll figure it out. I’ll get you the money. Just don’t touch my brother.”
“Three months. We will collect part of it at the end of every month.”
They walked away, leaving me standing there like a frozen statue.
The grocery bag slipped from my hand. I heard things break, felt the impact, but couldn’t bring myself to care.
My legs stopped working. I ended up sitting on the wet sidewalk, rain pouring down, ruined groceries scattered around me.
One of the drawing books I’d bought for Lily had landed in a puddle. I watched water seep into it.
I’d bought it to make her happy and those metallic crayons would light up her little face.
Now it was garbage.
Just like my entire life.
I stayed there longer than I realized—sitting on the wet sidewalk, rain pounding against my back, groceries bleeding into the gutter like the universe was mocking me. People walked past, umbrellas tilted, eyes sliding over me like I was just another piece of New York scenery. A cautionary tale. A reminder that the city didn’t care who you were or how hard you tried.
Someone stepped around me, muttering something about “tourists.” If only.
My fingers were numb by the time I reached for the ruined drawing book. The cover peeled up in soggy layers, the pages already warping. I tried to lift it, but it fell apart in my hands, the paper dissolving into pulp. I stared at it, throat tight. It wasn’t about the book. It wasn’t even about the money. It was the fact that I’d bought it with hope. With the tiny, stupid belief that I could still give something good to someone.
And now it was ruined. Like everything else I touched.
A car splashed through a puddle nearby, sending a wave of cold water across my legs. That finally jolted me back into my body. I forced myself to stand, my knees shaking. My hands trembled as I gathered what was left of my groceries—half a loaf of bread, a cracked carton of eggs, milk that had burst open and was leaking down the sidewalk like a crime scene.
I left the milk. I couldn’t carry it. Couldn’t carry anything else.
The walk home felt longer than usual. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every footstep behind me made my heart jump. I kept checking over my shoulder, expecting those men to reappear, to drag me into an alley and finish what they started. My breath came too fast, too shallow, and I had to force myself to slow down before I passed out.
By the time I reached my building, my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my keys twice. The lock stuck again, and I shoved my shoulder into the door harder than necessary. It finally gave way, slamming open with a bang that echoed through the hallway.
Inside, the apartment felt too small. Too quiet. Too dark.
I set the groceries on the counter and leaned against the sink, gripping the edge until my knuckles turned white. My breath hitched. Once. Twice. Then the dam broke.
I slid down to the floor, back against the cabinets, and cried. Not the soft, cinematic kind of crying. The ugly, shaking, gaspingkind that made my chest ache and my eyes burn. The kind that came from somewhere deep and old and tired.
I cried for Colin. For the fear in my bones. For the years I’d spent paying for mistakes that weren’t mine. For the fact that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how many shifts I picked up or how many corners I cut, it was never enough.
I cried until there was nothing left.
Eventually, the tears slowed. My breathing steadied. The apartment was still dark, but the storm outside had softened to a steady drizzle. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket and forced myself to stand.
I needed to think. To plan. To figure out how the hell I was going to survive the next three months.
A hundred thousand dollars.
Three months.
And a threat hanging over my brother’s life.
I paced the length of my apartment, hands in my hair. I could pick up extra shifts somewhere, but that wouldn’t even scratch the surface. I could sell my furniture, but it wasn’t worth anything. I could ask Delia, but she’d never have that kind of money, and even if she did, I couldn’t drag her into this mess.
