She thought wrong.
I shut off the water. Grabbed a towel. Dressed with the same methodical precision I brought to everything that mattered.
Jeans. Dark henley. Jacket that cost more than most people's rent.
The mirror showed me exactly what I needed to see.
Composed.
Controlled.
Inevitable.
Belle Reiss had spent a year pretending I didn't exist.
That ended tonight.
My phone buzzed as I stepped into the parking lot.
One voicemail.
I listened.
"Mr. Jones." The voice belonged to someone who'd learned discretion came with better compensation than morality. "Confirming the details you requested. Maurice Reiss. Admitted Thursday evening, second episode in ten days. Prognosis stable but guarded. Cardiologist recommends stress reduction, lifestyle modification, ongoing monitoring."
A pause. Papers shuffling.
"Insurance covered the immediate intervention. Long-term care falls outside their parameters. Estimated out-of-pocket for recommended treatment plan runs approximately one hundred and forty-seven thousand over the next six months. Patient's daughter was informed this afternoon. No immediate family resources identified."
The voice flattened further. Professional courtesy stripped to its skeleton.
"The financial coordinator offered standard payment options. Miss Reiss appeared... overwhelmed. No decisions made. She left late last night."
Click.
I deleted the message.
One hundred and forty-seven thousand.
The number settled into my mind with crystalline clarity.
Impossible.
Devastating.
Everything unfolding exactly as planned.
I slid behind the wheel. Started the engine. Didn't smile.
This wasn't pleasure.
It was inevitability.
The drive took twelve minutes.
I knew because I'd timed it before.
Main Street stretched quiet under streetlights—shops dark, sidewalks empty except for shadows that didn't move. The bookstore sat third from the corner, warm light bleeding through the front windows despite the late hour.
