Chapter 8
Lucia
The all-night diner’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead as a jackhammer pounds at my temples. I’ve been here so long that the staff no longer glance at me. The nightshift waitress refills my coffee without asking, her eyes soft but tinged with the pity I hate. I keep my gaze down, fingers wrapped around the chipped mug, soaking in its warmth.
My clothes are still damp from rushing in from the cab to the diner. Each shift of fabric sends a chill across my skin. I can’t tell if it’s the rain or adrenaline still skating through my veins.
My body hasn’t caught up with the fact that I’m safe. Well, as safe as I can be. My hands shake every time I lift the mug. I pretend it’s from the rainy morning.
Over time, the sky shifts to that pale, washed-out gray of dawn. It signals I’ve survived another night and that it’s time to take action to make sure it isn’t my last.
Standing, my legs feel hollow, as if made of paper. I leave a few crumpled bills on the table—too much considering I didn’t eat anything, but people are less forthcoming with information when theydon’t believe they’re owed anything—and step out into the morning air. It’s so crisp it wakes me up better than an ice-cold shower.
The studio apartment is only a few blocks away. I found it in the classifieds last night and circled it with a pen that barely had any ink left. It’s a cash-only, no-questions-asked apartment.
That was all I needed to see.
When I reach the building, the rain resumes. Icy needles spear through my jacket, and my shoes squish with every step. The building towers over me. It’s almost too polished and clean to be sullied by me. Here, people have routines and lives that don’t unravel overnight.
I push through the door. Warm air brings feeling back to my toes, and the strong aroma of cleaning products smacks into me. It smells like order, and my chest unexpectedly thuds.
A man behind the counter thumbs through papers on a clipboard. He’s older, maybe late fifties, with a round belly and a face that’s seen too many early mornings. Gray hair sticks out from under a navy beanie, and glasses sit low on his nose.
He glances up when he hears the door close behind me, and then his eyes sweep over my soaked clothes and scuffed shoes.
I brace myself for judgment. Instead, he sighs.
“You must be Cici.” His voice is gruff but not close to unkind.
Nodding, I push wet strands of hair behind my ear. “Yeah. Sorry, I… uh… didn’t expect the rain to get this bad.”
He snorts. “Weather report said it’d pour all night, but no one trusts them anymore. They rarely get it right.” He puts the clipboard down and gestures for me to come closer. “Got your key right here.”
When I approach the counter, the floor rug squelches under my shoes, and I wince. “Sorry. I’m making a mess.”
“The floor has seen worse.” He dismisses my concern with a wave. “Name’s Harris. I’m the building superintendent. If something breaks, leaks, or makes a noise it shouldn’t, come find me.”
His tone is straightforward, but his gaze is shrewd. He isn’t staring at me with suspicion but rather gauging what kind of tenant I’ll be.
He hands me a small envelope with my key inside. The paper is crisp, and again, feels too clean in my hands.
“Cash, right?” he asks, not accusatory, just stating. “We don’t get many cash tenants these days.”
My stomach gurgles as I place a month’s rent on the counter. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” He shrugs, taking the money. “Owner doesn’t care how the money comes in as long as it comes in on time.” He pauses stuffing the funds into a cash box in the drawer, eyes narrowing. “You got a job?”
I swallow. “Working on it.”
He nods, expecting that. “Keep to yourself, pay on time, don’t cause trouble, and we’ll have no issues.”
His tone suggests he’s encountered people like me before—people who arrive with only a bag and pay cash without providing any details.
He knows not to ask questions. Not even a last name for the rental ledger.
Relief floods over me so suddenly that my knees nearly give way.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than he realizes.