Returning to her room, I watch as she stuffs the last of her clothes into a worn rucksack, then I take that too. We head back downstairs, but before we leave, I veer off and bang on the landlord’s door.
It swings open a few seconds later. He looks pissed-off, until he sees it’s me and his expression drops instantly.
“Mr. Carmichael,” he mutters, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“Sort these flats out,” I say, stepping closer. “This place is a shithole. It’s not fit for anyone to live in.”
I shove Wynter’s keys into his chest, and he flinches.
“You’ve got three months,” I add quietly. “I’ll be sending Dale to check.”
He nods quickly, of course he does. He knows better than to argue.
Outside, the air feels different, cleaner. But the urge to get back and change out of these clothes is strong, like the damp is personally clinging to me . . .reminding me.
I head for the car, aware of Wynter walking beside me, her eyes fixed on me.
“How do you know him?” she asks as I stuff her things in the boot. “My landlord.”
“Long story.” I pull the car door open. “Let’s go.”
She slides into the passenger seat, but she doesn’t let it drop. “I like stories.”
I shut her door and round the car. I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
“It’s not a good one,” I mutter, waiting while she fastens her seatbelt.
She doesn’t respond, but I feel the curiosity radiating off her. I pull into traffic, keeping my eyes on the road.
I don’t tell her I grew up in those flats, or that the same man used to hand me cash and send me across the estate to deliver drugs.
I was eight years old.
Now, I’m thirty-six.
And he answers to me.
WYNTER
Ray is silent the entire drive back to the casino. It’s clear there’s some connection with the estate I’ve been staying on, but Ray doesn’t seem the type to know the sort of people from that area, especially the youths hanging around it.
He pulls into an underground carpark, the space opening into something that feels more like a showroom than somewhere to park. Six cars sit lined up, all sleek, polished, and far too expensive to even look at for too long.
He presses a button on the key fob, and a metal shutter rolls down behind us with a heavy clang.
“This is the private carpark,” he says. “I’ll get you a fob. I assume you can drive—the ad did state you needed a clean licence.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” I rush out. “I don’t have a car anymore. But, yes, I can drive.”
His gaze flicks to me. “What happened to your car?”
“I sold it,” I mutter, focusing on unbuckling my seatbelt.
I don’t add that it paid for food. And rent. And bus fares to interviews that went nowhere. But judging by the look he gives me, I think he’s already worked it out.
We step out of the car, and he gestures towards the elevators.
“You’ll need your key card to access the penthouse and my office,” he says. “My office is on three. Your card will only work for the floors you need.” We step inside and he presses for the first floor.
