Chapter 5: The Ashes of Routine
The elevator ride down to the subterranean garage felt longer than the trip up. Marcus's driver escorted me back to my apartment building just as the first pale rays of sunlight began to pierce through the heavy smog of the eastern horizon. The streets were waking up; delivery trucks rattled over potholes, and early commuters hurried along the damp sidewalks with their coffee cups clutched tight.
When the town car pulled up to my building, I didn't immediately get out. I looked up at the third-floor window of my apartment. Something looked wrong. The thin cotton curtain I had hastily parted earlier was now pushed completely aside, and the glass of the window pane was starred with a clean, circular fracture.
"Stay in the car," the driver instructed, his hand resting on the latch of the door.
"No," I said, pushing the door open before he could stop me. The cold morning air rushed into the cabin. I crossed the sidewalk at a run, shoving open the heavy glass front door of the building and taking the stairs three at a time. My lungs burned, but adrenaline kept my legs moving.
When I reached the third floor, my apartment door was standing wide open. The heavy deadbolt had been sheared cleanly out of the wooden frame, leaving splintered wood and exposed screws dangling on the carpet.
I stepped inside cautiously. The place had been systematically torn apart. Every drawer from the kitchenette was dumped onto the linoleum; my mattress had been slashed down the center, spilling white stuffing across the floor; my clothes were scattered across the living area like discarded rags. They hadn't been looking for money or valuables. They had been looking for a trace—a phone number, a name, a receipt—anything connecting me to the elderly woman or to Marcus.
On the kitchen counter, resting amidst the wreckage of broken mugs and spilled flour, was a single printed photograph of me walking out of the restaurant the previous evening, stamped with a red X across my face.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I pulled it out with trembling fingers. The screen displayed a single incoming text message from an unknown number: Your move, Emily.
I didn't hesitate anymore. I pulled out the dark metal business card with the silver serpent emblem, turned it over in my palm, and dialed the ten-digit number embossed on the back. It picked up on the first ring.
May you like
"I'm ready," I said into the receiver, staring down at the slashed mattress.
"Pack nothing," Marcus's voice came back instantly, cold and resolute. "The car is coming back around."
