My bag bangs against my side. My sneakers crunch over the derelict driveway.
Panic rises, a dangerous tide that wants to drown me under it. It’s messing with my head. I nearly miss the crack in the asphalt that I know better than to step on.
Every few seconds, I turn to look behind me. Our alarm systems no longer function. The gates are tall, but they won’t stop someone with a big enough grudge.
Thankfully, no one’s there.
Not like it slows me.
Cold air in, vapored breath out.
I’m getting closer. My home key is in my hand.
Finally, I make it, climbing the weather-stained marble stairs to our porch.
I shove the key in the lock, groaning in frustration when it won’t turn. Even lubricant oil is out of our budget now, so I just have to…
If I twist my hand like this, push the handle like that, and…
There, the door opens.
Next time, it might not. Next time, I might have to break the window to get into my own house.
Unless I accept The Restorer’s offer.
Before I do, though, Barclay has to agree to it. I don’t want to have to ask for permission, but I owe him.
What am I talking about? He’ll approve. Of course he will, especially since we’ve run out of options.
Plus, the invitation looks legit. A serious offer from a serious person.
If it weren’t, The Restorer wouldn’t have bothered with such a pretty letter, right?
Worst case, if I’m wrong about his intentions and this offer is about sex, I’ll know the moment I meet him. Then I’ll refuse politely. Tell him that, no matter how desperate I am, I’ll have to decline.
Easy.
Once I’m inside the house, I take a deep, steadying breath and collect myself.
Before I go up to Barclay’s room, I lean against the wall by the door, squeezing my eyes shut.
God, I hope this is legitimate.
Ten million dollars could change our lives.
Splitting the money between my brother and me would solve all our problems. He could pay for medical care around the clock and invest the rest. Then, I could leave this place. Start over.
Have a life.
“Elly, I hear you down there.” Barclay’s shout echoes from the second floor. “Where the fuck are you?”
On instinct, I flinch back against the wall.
I guess tonight isn’t a good time to bring up the invitation. When he’s on the edge, everything pisses him off. He’d make a scene. Tell me flat out no. Guilt me into staying.
Tomorrow, once he’s rested, we’ll talk.
“Coming,” I call out, rushing to the kitchen, turning lights on and off as I go.
