Chapter 2 - The Envelope Under the Floorboards
The clock on the dashboard of Sadie’s rusted 2008 Honda Civic read 2:14 a.m. as she parked two blocks away from her apartment building. The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the asphalt of 4th Street into a glistening black mirror that reflected the sickly green glow of a nearby pawnshop sign.
Her ribs throbbed with every shift of the gear stick, and the thick makeup on her face felt caked and suffocating, like hardened plaster. But as she killed the engine and stepped out into the freezing downpour, a desperate surge of adrenaline pushed her forward.
She had $1,800 in the envelope.
She had just picked up her tips from Thomas—an extra $220 in cash, thanks to a generous table of tourists in the main dining room. Combined with what she already had, she had $2,020.
Two thousand and twenty dollars.
More than enough for a Greyhound ticket to Chicago, a cheap motel room for a week, and a fresh start where no one knew her name, where no one expected her to be invisible, and where Carl Jenkins couldn't touch her.
She sprinted across the flooded street, her cheap heels clicking frantically against the concrete, and pushed open the heavy, rusted iron door of her apartment building. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage, damp carpet, and stale cigarette smoke—the familiar, depressing scent of poverty and trap-door despair.
She climbed the three flights of stairs in record time, holding her breath as she passed apartment 3B, where Mrs. Gable lived. She didn't want anyone seeing her, didn't want anyone talking to her.
She reached her own door—apartment 3F—and slipped her key into the lock.
It turned too easily.
Sadie froze.
She had locked it from the outside when she left for her shift at 3:00 p.m. She always double-locked it. Always.
Her hand hovered over the brass knob, her stomach dropping into a bottomless, icy pit. The door clicked open an inch, revealing a sliver of darkness inside.
“Carl?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
There was no answer. Just the low, rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen.
She pushed the door open, feeling around the wall for the light switch. Her thumb found the plastic toggle and flicked it upward.
The overhead bulb flickered once, twice, and then cast a harsh, yellow light over the disaster zone.
Her heart stopped.
The apartment had been completely torn apart. The cushions of the thrift-store sofa had been slashed open, white foam spilling out like guts. Clothes were pulled from the dresser and scattered across the linoleum floor. Books, papers, and empty beer bottles littered the kitchen counter.
And in the center of the bedroom, kneeling beside the closet, was Carl.
He was holding a rectangular shoebox in his hands.
Inside that shoebox was her life. Her bus ticket money. Her passport. Her birth certificate. Her $2,020.
“Looking for something, Sadie?” Carl asked, his voice low, thick with gin and vicious amusement. He didn't look up immediately. He slowly peeled open a crisp, hundred-dollar bill, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and index finger.
Sadie’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped backward, her hand hitting the front door behind her, her fingers frantically searching for the lock.
“Carl... please,” she choked out, tears finally breaking free, cutting hot trails through the caked makeup on her face. “That’s... that’s my savings. That’s for my mother’s medical bills. I need it.”
Carl finally looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot and wild, the pupils dilated with alcohol and rage. He stood up slowly, towering over her in the cramped hallway, his broad shoulders blocking the only exit.
“Your mother’s medical bills?” Carl laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Your mother died three years ago in Ohio, Sadie. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don't know what you've been doing? Stashing cash. Packing bags. Trying to sneak away like a thief in the night.”
He took a step forward.
Sadie’s back pressed flat against the door. “I wasn't—”
Crack.
The backhand came out of nowhere, catching her across the exact same cheek where the fresh purple bruise was already healing. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through her skull, throwing her sideways against the wall. A metallic taste flooded her mouth as her split lip opened up again, warm blood trickling down her chin.
“You don't leave me,” Carl snarled, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back violently. “You belong to me. You hear me? Without me, you’re nothing. You’re just a cheap waitress with a busted face!”
Sadie couldn't breathe. The pain in her ribs flared into a blinding inferno, and black spots danced at the edges of her vision. She raised her hands to claw at his wrists, but he was too strong, too heavy, too fueled by a lifetime of casual cruelty.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson about loyalty,” Carl muttered, his breath reeking of cheap gin as he raised his other fist for a heavier blow.
Suddenly, a strange sound echoed from the street below.
It wasn't the sound of police sirens. It was something much heavier, much more menacing.
The deep, rumbling exhaust of three synchronized Maybach sedans idling right outside the building’s entrance.
Carl froze, his fist hovering in the air. He turned his head toward the cracked window, listening.
Then, heavy, synchronized footsteps began to echo up the wooden staircase of the building.
Not one set of footsteps.
May you like
Half a dozen.
Pacing with the cold, measured cadence of an execution squad.
