Chapter 2 - The House on Elm StreetThe rain began just as Dylan Carter’s black town car pulled up outside 476 Elm Street.
It was a dilapidated, two-story house that looked as though it had surrendered to the elements years ago. Paint peeled from the wooden siding in long, pale strips. The porch steps sagged in the middle, and the single bulb above the front door flickered weakly against the approaching twilight.
Dylan stepped out into the drizzle, his custom charcoal overcoat shielding him from the chill. He didn't belong in this neighborhood any more than he had belonged in the grocery store on Maple Street. Yet, the final line of his assistant’s report kept burning in his mind: Prior employer: Ashcroft Estate.
The Ashcrofts.
A name synonymous with ruthless corporate monopolies, old-money arrogance, and scandals buried so deep they required a shovel and a federal judge to unearth. Jonathan Ashcroft, patriarch of the empire, was a man Dylan had locked horns with in corporate acquisitions more than once—a man who treated human beings like disposable inventory.
Dylan walked up the sagging steps and knocked twice.
The door creaked open a few inches, secured by a rusted brass chain. Two dark eyes peered out into the dim porch light.
“Mr. Dylan?”
It was Sophie, the older twin by seven minutes, her messy braids falling over her shoulders. When she saw who it was, her cautious expression softened, and she unlatched the chain.
“Come in, please. But be quiet. Mommy is sleeping.”
Dylan stepped inside. The interior was remarkably clean, despite the poverty that clung to the walls. The smell of eucalyptus vapor rub hung heavy in the air. On the small kitchen table sat the loaf of bread he had paid for earlier, neatly sliced, with two empty bowls beside it.
“Where is your mother?” Dylan asked softly, crouching down to be at eye level with Sophie and Laya, who had just emerged from the hallway holding a wet washcloth.
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“In the back room,” Laya whispered, her brown eyes swimming with un-shed tears. “She tried to get up this morning to go to her cleaning job at the hotel, but her legs wouldn't work. She’s burning up, Mr. Dylan. And she keeps coughing.”
Dylan stood up, his jaw tightening. “Take me to her.”
