Support environment.
That was how a person ended up wearing a visor in a fried food place while trying to keep a roof over her mother’s head.
A knock sounded at the door.
Not loud.
Not polite either.
Three hard raps.
Lauren froze.
Then came a fourth.
She closed the laptop.
For one ridiculous second she considered not answering.
But there was nowhere to disappear in a two-room apartment.
She stood, smoothed her shirt, and went to the door.
On the way, she glanced at the microwave clock.
8:11 p.m.
Almost exactly two hours since Mr. Grady had fired her.
The landlord.
It had to be.
She opened the door with her jaw already tight.
But it wasn’t Mr. Talbot.
It was the man from the corner booth.
Lauren knew him instantly.
Late forties maybe.
Broad shoulders.
Clean coat.
The kind of face that usually looked carved out of stone.
