Chapter 3: Driving Out to the East Side
The heavy oak door of the mansion clicked shut behind us, cutting off the chill of the marble foyer, but the draft followed us right down the circular driveway. Vance’s black town car idled at the curb, its exhaust curling into thin, ghost-like plumes under the amber glow of the portico lights. The driver’s side door remained shut. Vance himself pulled the rear door open for us, standing tall against the wet evening air in his dark suit, his tie loosened just an inch at the knot.
"Get in," he said, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument or hesitation.
I slid across the leather upholstery, pulling Maya in beside me. She clutched her pink backpack against her chest like a shield, her braided pigtails slightly undone from the frantic energy of the afternoon. Vance climbed in beside the driver, and the partition glass remained down, dividing the quiet front cabin from the tight space we shared in the back. As the car rolled down the gravel drive and onto the main boulevard, the city shifted. The manicured hedges, wrought-iron security gates, and sprawling stone facades of the estate dissolved into grease-stained asphalt, fading strip malls, and row houses blinking with tired neon.
The silence in the back seat was thick, heavy with the hum of the tires against the wet highway. Maya stared out the window, watching the smudged lights streak past. The sheer emotional weight of the confrontation she had forced in the foyer—demanding answers from a man who usually commanded boardrooms—had drained every ounce of fight from her. Within twenty minutes, her head grew heavy, tipping sideways until it rested firmly against my shoulder. Her breathing slowed into the deep, even rhythm of a child collapsing under the sheer exhaustion of adult worries. I kept my arm locked around her, my fingers lightly tracing the denim straps of her overalls, while my eyes fixed on the back of Vance’s head through the gap in the seats. He didn't speak. He simply watched the road ahead, his reflection occasionally catching in the side mirror as we crossed the county line into the East Side.
We turned down a narrow street lined with skeletal sycamore trees and faded brick apartment complexes where the municipal streetlamps flickered like dying candles. The car slowed to a crawl, tires crunching over loose gravel in the rutted parking lot of my building. Vance leaned slightly forward, his dark eyes scanning the peeling paint on the exterior stairwells, the overflowing metal trash bins near the back fence, and the sagging wire mesh of the ground-floor windows. It was a look of clinical detachment—the gaze of a man accustomed to balance sheets and structural assessments, calculating the cost of neglect.
The town car came to a smooth halt directly beneath a sputtering streetlamp that cast a sickly yellow glare across the hood. Vance turned his head slightly toward us, breaking the long silence.
"Is this it?" he asked quietly, his voice devoid of judgment, yet carrying a weight that made my chest tighten.
May you like
"This is it," I whispered back, careful not to wake Maya against my shoulder.
Vance reached for the door handle, pushing it open to let the damp night air rush into the cabin.
