Page 11

I shove Theo out the door then pull away fast, giving the principal a lazy two-finger wave before she can close the distance. In the rear-view mirror I catch her face turning an impressive shade of red as she stands on the curb.

Not today.

I’ve burned through every last scrap of patience I had for the week, and it’s only Monday morning.

Fifteen minutes later, I push through the glass doors of the real estate agency. A bell chimes overhead. Cold air hits me first. Then an artificial lemon scent.

The receptionist looks up. Young. Early twenties. Dark hair. Big eyes. Pretty enough that people probably forgive her for being useless.

Her gaze catches on me and sticks there a beat longer than professional. Then she remembers herself and looks down at her keyboard, cheeks pink.

“Morning,” I say. “I need to speak to someone about the rental on Hammond.”

“I’ll—um.” She clears her throat. “I’ll…get someone.”

While she disappears into the back, I look around. Two cameras. One over the door, one in the corner by the brochure rack. Glass walls on the offices. No back exit visible. Bad place for anything messy.

Fine. Messy isn’t the plan anyway.

A man in a navy suit steps out a few seconds later with a smile so polished it makes me want to check my pockets. The guy looks like he bathes in baby oil.

“Johnathon Beaver.” He sticks his hand out.

I look at it. Don’t want to touch the guy.

“We don’t need to do that,” I say.

His hand lowers.

“Levi James. I want the place on Hammond.”

His smile tightens. “Unfortunately, that property already has an approved applicant.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

I say nothing. People hate silence. They’ll fill it with all kinds of useful shit if you let them. Johnathon shifts his weight. His eyes flick toward reception, then back to me.

“There are other properties I could show you.”

“I don’t want other properties.”

“The owner has already accepted⁠—”

“I heard you.”

His throat works.

“Maybe we could have a word in private,” I say.

Johnathon hesitates but leads me into his office and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I stay standing. Sitting makes people think you’re there to negotiate. I’m not.

But if he’s smart, this can be clean—a quiet conversation, some money in his pocket. That’s the best-case scenario. For him.

I pull my wallet from my back pocket and drop a thick brick of cash onto his desk. Bills fan out across the wood.

“That should cover your trouble.”