Chapter 4: Pay Your Own Rent

Terminal Way was an ugly stretch of asphalt between the railroad tracks and the industrial canal.

I locked the heavy padlock on Unit 108, pocketed the brass keys, and walked toward the gate.

Right on time, a yellow city cab skidded to the curb, throwing a spray of muddy slush across the sidewalk.

The back door swung open before the cab stopped rolling.

Delphine stepped out into the damp cold. She was wearing her expensive white puffer coat, designer leggings, and four-inch leather boots. Her makeup was ruined—black mascara streaked down her cheeks, and her face was blotchy with rage.

She slammed the taxi door so hard the window rattled, then marched straight toward me.

"Wren!" she yelled, her voice echoing off the corrugated metal garages. Two mechanics working under an open truck hood across the lot stopped to watch. "You selfish bitch! How dare you leave me stranded like that?!"

I stopped five feet away, keeping my hands resting loosely in the pockets of my field jacket.

"Keep your voice down, Delphine."

"Don't tell me to keep my voice down!" She shoved her way into my face, chest heaving. "The landlord had two cops drill out my locks! They tossed my clothes onto the sidewalk in black garbage bags! I don't have anywhere to sleep tonight, and you're hiding out in a dirty garage playing with boxes!"

"I told you on the phone," I said calmly. "I don't owe you a dime."

Tears spilled down Delphine's flushed cheeks, but her expression shifted from anger to something far uglier: weaponized guilt.

"Mom made you promise to look out for me before she died in hospice, Wren!" she pleaded, her voice cracking with theatrical sorrow. "You were the soldier. You were the strong one. How can you stand there in clean boots while strangers throw my things in the gutter? Did you ever care about this family at all?"

The mention of Mom hit like a cold needle, but it didn't pierce the armor. Mom had spent thirty-four years breaking her body on hospital tile so Delphine could grow up safe, and the second Mom's heart stopped, Delphine had pawned her gold wedding band to buy a handbag.

"Mom gave you three years of free rent and paid off your credit cards twice," I said. "You're twenty-four. Act like it."

Delphine's eyes went wild. Desperation stripped away the tears.

"Preston told me you have thousands stashed away!" she screamed. "Give me the money!"

She lunged forward, her long acrylic nails clawing straight for the zipper of my jacket.

My reflexes took over instantly.

I didn't flinch. I took a short step inside her reach, caught her right wrist in mid-air, and twisted her palm down and backward.

The simple joint-lock tightened the tendons in her wrist, forcing her up onto the tips of her high heels.

"Ow! Stop! Let go!" she shrieked, gasping in pain. "You're breaking my wrist!"

I leaned in close, keeping my voice down.

"Preston made a promise using my money," I said. "If you want $1,800 for your landlord, call Preston. Tell him to pull eighteen hundred of his own cash out of his wallet."

Delphine froze.

The realization hit her like freezing water. Preston loved treating her to expensive dinners on my credit line, but when it came to his own money, he wouldn't spare a nickel to pull her out of a ditch.

"He... he won't do that," she stammered.

"Exactly," I said. "He won't spend a single cent on you. Because to Preston, everyone is disposable."

I let go of her wrist and pushed her back toward the gate.

Delphine stumbled in her heels. Her ankle twisted on broken asphalt, and she slipped directly into a wide puddle of black machine grease and muddy runoff.

She went down hard on her knees.

A thick, oily stain soaked across the front of her white designer coat.

The two mechanics across the yard laughed out loud.

Delphine looked at her ruined coat, then up at the men, her face burning purple with humiliation. She scrambled up, sobbing, and ran down the street toward the avenue.

I didn't watch her go. I had six days left before the grid went dark, and family tantrums were a waste of daylight.

I grabbed my truck and drove three miles south to Northern Tool & Supply.

Inside the warehouse store, the aisles smelled of rubber, grease, and machine oil.

I grabbed a heavy steel cart and moved quickly through the aisles:

Two cast-iron manual barrel pumps for hand-cranking fuel and water without power.

Three heavy-duty siphon hoses with anti-static brass nozzles.

Six sets of two-inch ratchet tie-down straps rated for 10,000 pounds.

Two industrial ceramic water filtration units capable of purifying 5,000 gallons each, along with ten spare ceramic filter cartridges.

I wheeled the cart to register three.

"That'll be $1,710.45," the young clerk said, scanning the final box.

I pulled out my primary credit card and slid it into the chip reader.

BEEP. BEEP.

The screen flashed a glaring red banner: TRANSACTION DECLINED. CARD RESTRICTED FOR UNUSUAL ACTIVITY.

The clerk’s eyes shifted to my face, his posture tightening. "Card declined. Terminal says fraud flag. You'll have to call your bank's security line."

A fraud hold. The rapid large purchases from earlier had finally tripped an automated security algorithm.

I didn't argue or waste any time.

I reached inside my field jacket and pulled out the thick canvas bank envelope from First National. I peeled seventeen crisp $100 bills and two ten-dollar bills from the banded stack, laying them flat on the counter.

"$1,720," I said. "Keep the change."

The clerk looked at the cash, relaxed, and fed the bills into his drawer. The receipt printed immediately.

I wheeled the cart out to the side loading lane between two parked box trucks. Standing hidden from the street, I placed my bare hand on the cast-iron pump.

Store.

The entire cart emptied in less than a second, dissolving into the silent void in my mind.

I returned the cart to the bay and walked down the sidewalk toward the corner of 5th Street.

Halfway down the block, my skin prickled.

Parked across from the First National branch was a battered black sedan with dark tinted windows. The engine was idling, puffing thin white exhaust into the cold air.

Through the slightly cracked passenger window, I caught sight of two thick-necked men in dark jackets. The driver had a jagged white scar across his ear.

My breath hitched.

I knew those faces.

In Life 1, two weeks into the winter collapse, those exact two enforcers had kicked through my apartment lobby door looking for Preston. They worked collection for Sal’s Sports Lounge on 5th Street—the illegal bookie parlor where Preston had blown through hundreds of thousands of dollars.

They weren't looking at me. They were watching the bank's front entrance, waiting for Preston to walk through the doors.

Preston wasn't just behind on payments. He was being actively hunted.

I turned my head, pulled my jacket collar high against the biting wind, and crossed the street into the crowd.

Preston thought he had until Wednesday morning to squeeze $420,000 out of my mother's estate.

His loan sharks weren't going to give him that long.