Text messages from numbers I don't recognize.
Friend requests from people whose names sound vaguely familiar—maybe someone I sat near in college? Maybe a cousin of a cousin?
The local news has already posted a clip.
There I am, smiling, holding that ridiculous check. The comments are a mix of congratulations and speculation, people dissecting my clothes, my hair, my expression.
Someone says I look "sweet."
Someone else says I look "naive." A third comment warns me to get a lawyer before "the vultures descend."
I lock my phone and toss it onto the passenger seat.
***
There's a man outside my building when I pull into the parking garage. Tall. Well-dressed. Holding a briefcase like a shield.
He smiles when he sees me. Too familiar. Too confident.
Something about him makes my skin crawl.
"Lindsay Smith?"
I freeze with my key fob halfway to the door scanner.
"Do I know you?"
"Not yet." He extends a hand. "Marcus Brennan. Financial advisor. I specialize in helping people navigate sudden wealth."
I don't take his hand.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Public records. Lottery winners are easy to find." He doesn't seem bothered by my hesitation. "Look, I know you're overwhelmed. Everyone in your position is. But the decisions you make in these first few weeks will determine your financial security for the rest of your life. You need guidance."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?" His smile doesn't falter. "Because this kind of money attracts mistakes. And people who'll take advantage of them."
He holds out a business card—thick stock, embossed lettering. I take it just to make him leave.
"Think about it," he says. "You'll want help. Trust me."
I don't respond. Just scan my fob and slip inside, locking the door firmly behind me.
Upstairs, my apartment feels smaller than it did this morning. The walls press in. My phone won't stop buzzing on the kitchencounter where I left it, screen lighting up over and over with names and faces I barely remember.
I sink onto the couch—same spot where this started—and stare at the overturned laundry basket still lying on the floor.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was invisible.
Now I'm a target.
