I smile. “Oh, I plan to.”
That finally makes her laugh again. For a moment, anyway. Her phone buzzes against the end table. She picks it up, and the display shows “Unknown” instead of a number. She ignores the call and puts it face down on the table. Neither of us comments. We both know who’s behind it.
Later, when we’re tangled together in her bed and sleep finally claims her, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. Outside, tires roll slowly past the house again. Not once but twice. I slip out of bed, step to the window, and look down at the street. There’s a white SUV with a roof rack rolling by her house way too slowly to be a neighborhood resident. It parks at the curb a couple of houses down, even though there’s room in the driveway.
I don’t wake her. But I memorize the details—the vehicle, how it sounds idling, and the sound the tires make when it finally drives away.
ANDI
The next morning smells like disinfectant and crayons. Normal. Ordinary. The kind of ordinary I built with my own money and stubborn will.
The youth center is already loud when I walk in. A group of middle-school girls is arguing over a board game near the front desk. Two boys are racing down the hallway until Mrs. Alvarez snaps her fingers and sends them back to the art room.
For a moment, everything feels intact. Then I see the woman in the corner. Gray suit. Clipboard. A smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She stands when she sees me and extends her hand. “Ms. Morgan. I’m with the Department of Community Oversight. We’re conducting a routine review.”
Routine. That word has teeth. I shake her hand anyway.
“Of course,” I say evenly. “We’re fully transparent.”
She nods, but her eyes scan the room, calculating. “We received a complaint regarding financial irregularities tied to your personal trust.”
There it is. Not loud. Not public. But precise.
I keep my posture relaxed. “Our funding records are public. You’re welcome to review anything you need.”
She smiles again. “We will.”
She doesn’t ask about the kids. She doesn’t ask about programming. She asks about the structure. About liability. About oversight committees. She asks how much of my own money I’ve put into this building. They’re not auditing the center. They’re auditing me through it. When she leaves, she doesn’t look back.
But I do.
Across the street, a sedan idles longer than it should. I don’t recognize the driver. I don’t recognize the license plate. I take a picture anyway.
Nine days until Luke steps into the ring. Nine days until the entire city watches him. And whoever is orchestrating this is tightening the screws now. Not because I stabbed him. Because I survived.
I pull out my phone. Bill answers on the second ring.
“It’s started,” I tell him quietly.
“I know,” he replies.
I look through the window at the kids in the art room, arguing over glitter glue like the world isn’t shifting under their feet.
“This doesn’t touch them,” I say.
“It won’t,” Bill assures me. But his pause is too long.
I end the call and lean against the hallway wall for just a second. Luke wants to fight beside me. He doesn’t understand that this isn’t a single opponent.
It’s a network. A machine. And machines don’t get tired. They grind.
I straighten.
Nine days.
Let them move.
