No landlord in New York would rent to us. One look at our credit history, and the answer would be an automatic no.
Barclay might still have a friend or two left, though he never mentions them. But even if they exist, I doubt they’d want anything to do with us.
While he might be able to intimidate people behind closed doors, bringing us into their homes is a whole other story.
It’d be public, and we’re social pariahs now. No amount of influence would convince someone to take that risk.
This can’t be the end for us. For Barclay, mainly.
It can’t. It can’t.
It can’t.
Darkness clouds the edges of my vision, and I blink it away. Take a deep breath. Massage my temples in a weak attempt to calm down.
There has to be a way out. Some loophole, some clause, some way to postpone this.
A long-term payment plan. An appeal. Anything.
I snatch the papers back up, fingers tightening on the edges until they crumple. I’m thorough as I scan the text beneath those damning words, desperate for a lifeline.
There isn’t one. Just more pain, stacked sentence after sentence.
They’re all awful, and yet this one crushes me the hardest:Failure to remit payment within sixty days will result in immediate removal from the premises.
My lips press together as I hold back sobs of shame. Of fear. Of pain from being abandoned to fend for myself yet again.
Then, something happens. For the first time, my desperation transforms into a ball of white-hot rage. The longer I look at the papers, the bigger it grows. Doubling in size. Tripling.
I’m not even sure what actually pisses me off; I’m just mad.
So mad that I curl my hand into a fist and slam it into the counter. My tea shakes, hot liquid sloshing inside the mug, splashing out onto the granite.
“Fuck.”
The word feels as foreign to my mouth as the sharp crack of my hand against the counter did.
“Fuck,” I repeat, bringing my hand down on the counter again.
Nothing helps. Not cursing. Not violence. If anything, the burning in my chest spreads, seeping into the rest of my body.
“I’m going to fix this,” I growl at the paper. “This isn’t the end.”
My renewed sense of mission sends me flying off my stool and up the stairs. The eviction notice never slips from my grip.
Old family photos line the hallway, staring me down as I storm toward my room, disapproving of what I’m about to do.
How can they judge me?
They had money. Resources. A roof over their heads.
Soon, all I’ll have is a street corner.
Unless I do something about it. Unless I accept the mysterious art restorer’s offer.
Which I will. I don’t need a knight in shining armor. Don’t need friends or connections.
I’ll do this one thing for The Restorer, and my brother and I will be saved.
