Chapter 3 - The Stack of Cash and the Black SUVWinter sunlight pierced sharply through the thin linen curtains of Sheree’s bedroom, casting bright, dusty diagonal beams across the floorboards.
For several disoriented seconds after waking up, Sheree stared at the ceiling, wondering if the blood, the freezing alley, the bleeding stranger, and the midnight surgery had all been a bizarre, stress-induced hallucination born from a sixteen-hour hospital shift.
Then she smelled the lingering scent of rubbing alcohol, iodine, and wet wool hanging heavily in the hallway air.
She rolled out of bed, reached into her closet, grabbed a sturdy wooden clothes hanger by the hook as an improvised weapon, and cautiously turned the brass doorknob, inching her bedroom door open.
The apartment was dead silent.
She crept out into the living room and kitchen area. It was completely empty.
The fleece blanket she had thrown him had been folded with military precision into a neat square and placed on the center of the threadbare couch. The plastic bag containing the stranger’s ruined, blood-soaked designer clothes and ruined shirt was completely gone. Even the kitchen linoleum floor where he had bled out had been scrubbed clean with soapy water, leaving not a single trace of evidence behind.
Only the faint, medicinal smell of antiseptic remained.
Frowning in disbelief, Sheree walked over to the kitchen counter to grab her mug for coffee.
Sitting directly on top of her stack of overdue electric bills was a thick, perfectly banded brick of crisp, uncirculated one-hundred-dollar bills.
Sheree’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out with a trembling finger and counted the band. Ten thousand dollars in cash. Exactly enough to clear her overdue rent, pay off her remaining nursing school loans, and buy a new boiler for the building.
Tucked neatly underneath the cash was a thick, cream-colored business card made of heavy textured cardstock. There was no name, no company logo, and no address printed on it. There was only a single ten-digit phone number embossed in matte black ink.
Sheree did not touch the money or the card at first. A cold knot of dread formed in her stomach.
She walked quickly over to the front window, pulled the corner of the faded curtain back, and peered down at the snow-covered street below.
Parked directly across the road, half-buried in plowed snow, sat a massive, matte-black luxury SUV with tinted windows, idling quietly in the freezing morning air. As she watched, the driver’s side window rolled down approximately one inch, allowing a thin curl of cigarette smoke to drift out into the bitter air before the glass slid back up.
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Someone was watching her apartment.
Sheree let the curtain fall back into place, her heart hammering against her ribs. She walked over to her desk, picked up her phone, and opened a local news application, wondering what kind of storm she had just invited across her threshold.
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