The wind outside the Crane Industries headquarters was a physical assault. It whipped her hair across her face, stinging her eyes.
This was her first official visit. Her public debut as the forgotten Adkins daughter, summoned from obscurity.
She pushed through the revolving doors, the warmth of the lobby hitting her instantly. It smelled of expensive coffee and floor wax.
The receptionist, a girl named Sarah whose perfectly manicured nails paused over her keyboard, looked up. Her smile faltered when she saw her, taking in her cheap coat and worn boots. She immediately picked up her phone, pretending to be engrossed in a call.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Vance," she said, her voice low.
The receptionist didn't look at her. "One moment."
Elida pulled out her state-issued ID from her pocket and waited. Unlike the employees swiping their badges, she was an outsider.
BEEP-BEEP. A harsh red light flashed on a nearby screen. ACCESS DENIED.
Heads turned. The morning rush of analysts and executives slowed down, eyes darting toward the scene. The whispers started. Like the buzzing of flies.
A security guard, a man she didn't recognize, stepped forward. "Ma'am, you need to leave."
"I was told to come here," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "To collect my sister's personal effects."
"We can mail them to you."
"I want them now."
The elevator banks at the far end of the lobby chimed. A group of men in charcoal suits walked out, laughing.
In the center was Lucas Vance. CFO. Abraham's best friend. His attack dog.
Lucas saw her. His stride didn't break, but his smile twisted into something predatory. He said something to the men around him, and they dispersed, leaving him to approach the security desk alone.
He waved the guard away.
"Miss Adkins," Lucas boomed, his voice carrying across the marble floor. "The charity case. Here to pick up the scraps?"
She clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms until it hurt. "I'm here for Camille's things, Lucas."
"Right. The trash."
He snapped his fingers. An assistant she hadn't noticed rushed forward, holding a cardboard box.
Lucas took the box. He looked at her, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Crane Industries has a strict policy," he said. "We don't retain liabilities. Especially not sentimental junk from addicts."
He turned the box over.
He didn't hand it to her. He dumped it.
Pens, a stapler, a scarf, and a wooden picture frame crashed onto the polished granite floor.
The sound of shattering glass was sharp and distinct.
She froze.
The picture frame lay face down. A shard of glass had pierced through the backing.
"Oops," Lucas said. He stepped forward, his Italian leather shoe crushing her sister's wool scarf.
She dropped to her knees.
She didn't care about the people watching. She didn't care about the humiliation burning her cheeks.
She reached for the frame. Her hand was shaking. She turned it over. The glass had sliced across her mother's smiling face.
She brushed a shard away. A sharp pain bit into her index finger.
A drop of bright red blood welled up, dripping onto the photograph. It looked like a tear of blood on her mother's cheek.
"Clean this up," Lucas said to the janitor, gesturing vaguely at her. "It's unsanitary."
She picked up the photo, sliding it out of the broken frame. She grabbed the scarf, shaking off the dust from his shoe.
She stood up.
The lobby was silent.
She looked at Lucas. "Tell Abraham his taste has deteriorated," she said, her voice cold. "Especially in friends."
Lucas's jaw tightened. He hadn't expected the mouse to bite back.
She turned and walked toward the exit. Every step felt like walking on a knife's edge.
Through the glass walls of the lobby, she saw a black Maybach idling at the curb. The tint was dark, but not opaque.
The rear window rolled down just an inch.
She saw eyes. Dark. Deep. Watching.
Abraham.
He had watched the whole thing. He had sat there, safe in his car, and watched his best friend humiliate her.
Something inside her snapped. The last tether of hope, the last pathetic wish that he might be different, disintegrated.
She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
She looked directly at the sliver of open window.
She raised her hand.
And she extended her middle finger.
The window rolled up instantly. The Maybach peeled away, merging aggressively into traffic.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, her bloody finger smearing the screen.
A text from a secure, encrypted number she knew well.
The Surgeon is needed. The Onyx Room. 10 PM. Standard fee.
She stared at the message, then at the blood on her hand.
She wiped it on her coat.
