Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the SuburbsTracking down a fired housemaid with no digital footprint in a city of millions should have been impossible for ordinary men. But I am Marcus Whitaker. Within two hours, my private security detail had pulled traffic camera footage, subway swipe logs, and rideshare records.
Emily Vance. Twenty-four years old. An art history graduate degree pushed aside to support her younger sister through medical school.
My private jet-black Maybach pulled up outside a crumbling apartment complex in a notoriously rough neighborhood on the south side. The paint was peeling, the streetlights flickered, and the air smelled of exhaust and rain.
I stepped out, my tailored Brioni suit instantly looking entirely out of place. My bodyguard, Miller, tried to step forward. "Sir, let me go up first. This area isn't—"
"No," I cut him off, adjusting my cuffs. "This is my mess. I'll clean it up."
I climbed three flights of creaking wooden stairs, dodging flickering overhead bulbs and the smell of cheap takeout, until I reached apartment 4B. I raised my fist and knocked. Once. Twice.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open a few inches, held back by a heavy brass security chain.
A pair of tired, tear-rimmed brown eyes peered out at me through the crack.
Emily.
May you like
When she recognized the tall, imposing silhouette standing in her dim hallway, her breath hitched. She tried to close the door, but my hand was already on the frame, blocking it with gentle firmness.
"Please, Emily," I said, my voice stripped of all its corporate arrogance. "Let me in. We need to talk."
Related Stories
