It took Ines four hours to get back to Manhattan. She had hitchhiked part of the way with a trucker who looked at her with pity, dropping her off near the George Washington Bridge.
She was soaked, shivering, and her feet were blistered and bleeding inside her wet shoes.
She went straight to the hotel where she worked as a maid-her real job, the one that kept the lights on. She slipped in through the employee entrance, hoping to change into her uniform and disappear into the linen closet for a nap.
Her manager, Henderson, was waiting by the time clock.
He took one look at her dripping hair and shook his head. He held out a white envelope.
"You're done, Mccall," he said. He didn't look her in the eye.
Ines froze. She signed rapidly. Why? I'm on time.
Henderson sighed. "We got a call. From the board. Someone high up said you're a security risk." He lowered his voice. "You pissed off the wrong people, Ines. Take your pay and go."
Dorian.
It had to be. He wasn't satisfied with stranding her; he had to destroy her livelihood too.
Ines took the envelope. It felt light. Two hundred dollars, maybe.
She walked out into the alley, leaning against the brick wall. Her phone buzzed.
Reminder: Nursing Home Payment Due: $5,800. Deadline: 11:59 PM.
She slid down the wall until she hit the wet pavement. She had nothing. No job. No money. No pride.
She dragged herself to the subway. The ride to Queens was a blur of exhaustion.
When she reached her apartment building, the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the projects.
She entered the stairwell. The smell hit her instantly.
It wasn't the usual smell of urine and cabbage. It was cheap, spicy cologne. The kind that burned your nose.
Ines stopped on the second landing. She turned to leave.
The door above her flew open. Two men-massive, shaped like refrigerators-blocked the stairs.
Behind them, Silas peered out. He looked terrified. And eager.
"Ines!" he squeaked. "You got the money, right?"
Ines shook her head. She clutched the envelope from the hotel.
One of the men, the one with a neck tattoo, marched down the stairs. He grabbed Ines by her wet hair and dragged her up.
She didn't scream. She couldn't.
They threw her into her apartment. It was even worse than before. The furniture was smashed.
The second man snatched the envelope from her hand. He counted the cash. "This is a joke," he growled. "This doesn't even cover the vig."
The first man pulled out a knife. It was a switchblade, the click loud in the room. He waved it near Ines's face.
"Silas said you have a rich boyfriend," the man said.
"She does!" Silas yelled from the corner. "She was with Mcclain! Dorian Mcclain! Make her call him!"
Ines stared at her uncle in horror. He had sold her out. Completely.
The man with the knife pulled Ines's phone from her pocket. He grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw until it bruised, and forced the phone to unlock with her face ID.
He scrolled through the call log.
"Dorian," he read. "Jackpot."
He shoved the phone into Ines's hand. He pressed the blade against her throat, just enough to prick the skin. A warm drop of blood trickled down her neck.
"Call him," the man hissed. "Ask for fifty grand."
Ines's hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. She would rather die than call him. Not after he left her on the cliff. Not after he fired her.
The man pressed the knife harder. "Do it, or I carve a smile into your pretty face."
Ines hit dial.
The ringback tone purred. Once. Twice.
Click.
"Changed your mind?" Dorian's voice was lazy, arrogant.
Ines opened her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. No sound came out.
