Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Curtis Hale"Keep quiet," Roland hissed, grabbing Clara’s wrist with a grip of steel. His eyes darted around the tiny room, calculating escape routes, weapons, and lines of sight.
"Let go of me!" Clara whispered fiercely, wrenching her wrist free. "That's Officer Miller downstairs. He comes here every morning for coffee. If he sees a battered mafia boss hiding in my bedroom, we're both dead—you because they'll finish the job, and me because I harbored a fugitive!"
The heavy boots of the patrolmen creaked on the exterior wooden staircase leading directly to Clara’s second-floor landing.
Knock. Knock.
"Clara? You in there? Open the door, we got reports of suspicious activity near Warehouse 4 last night."
Roland didn't hesitate. With fluid, silent grace despite his broken body, he slipped behind the heavy floral curtain blocking off Clara’s makeshift closet. He grabbed a heavy iron pipe leaning against the wall, his muscles tensing like a coiled spring. If Miller opened that door, Roland would snap his neck before the cop could draw his weapon. It was cold, ruthless survival.
Clara saw the murder in his eyes. Panic spiked through her chest. She couldn't let blood be spilled in her home—not over this dangerous stranger.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Clara buttoned the top of her flannel shirt, ran a hand through her hair, and threw the door open.
"Officer Miller! Good morning," she said, forcing a bright, casual smile that masked her trembling knees. She deliberately blocked the doorway, leaning against the frame. "I'm just changing. What's all this about?"
Miller looked past her, sniffing the air. "Morning, Clara. We found a wiped-out SUV down by the old loading docks. Looks like someone went flying through the guardrail. Car belonged to a high-end corporate leasing agency in the city, but the plates were scrubbed. You hear anything last night?"
"Just the wind and Goliath barking at raccoons," Clara lied smoothly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "You know how noisy these docks get when a storm rolls in."
Miller narrowed his eyes, peering closer at her face. "You look pale, kid. You've been working too many hours at the diner. Take care of yourself." With a tip of his cap, he turned around. "Keep your doors locked. Word on the street is some heavy players are moving into the district."
As Miller's footsteps faded down the stairs, Roland stepped out from the shadows, lowering the iron pipe. He looked at Clara with a new, complex light in his eyes—not just assessing a savior, but assessing an accomplice.
"You're quick on your feet," Roland noted quietly. "Most people would have folded under pressure."
"I live in the harbor, Mr. Vance," Clara spat, grabbing her coat. "Survival is second nature here. Now, you need to tell me who tried to kill you, because if they're looking for your body around here, it's only a matter of time before they find this apartment."
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Roland walked to the small cracked window, looking out over the frozen docks where his empire now operated without him. "His name is Curtis Hale. My second-in-command. He thinks he's the king now."
"Then we need to plan," Clara said, stepping forward with a fierce glint in her eye. "Because if Curtis finds out you're alive, he won't just kill you—he'll burn this entire harbor to the ground to cover his tracks. And I live here."
