Chapter 4 - The Shadows of the East Side
The wind howling off the East River cut through the narrow brick alleyways like a razor blade.
It was 9:30 PM, and the neighborhood surrounding Avenue C looked a world away from the gleaming glass towers of Central Park. Here, the streetlights flickered with a sickly yellow glow, casting long, fractured shadows across overflowing trash cans, rusted chain-link fences, and rows of decrepit tenement walk-ups.
A black Mercedes-Maybach glided through the potholes with an absurd, surreal elegance, its high-end suspension absorbing the brutal asphalt as if it were riding on silk.
In the back seat, Vincent Morgan looked out the window, his expression stiff and impassive. Beside him sat a thick manila folder containing the preliminary intelligence Thomas had managed to pull together in less than four hours.
"Are you sure about this, Mr. Morgan?" Thomas asked from the driver's seat, glancing back through the rearview mirror with a hint of concern. "This area isn't exactly zoned for corporate visits. It's late, and—"
"I don't care about zoning, Thomas," Vincent interrupted quietly. He opened the folder. Inside was a single black-and-white photograph taken by a private investigator an hour earlier: a weathered brick tenement with peeling paint, laundry hanging from a rusted fire escape, and a flickering neon sign for a 24-hour laundromat on the ground floor.
And standing outside the side entrance, wearing the exact same oversized puffer jacket held together by silver safety pins, was Iris. She was holding a plastic laundry basket nearly as big as she was, struggling to carry it up the concrete steps.
Vincent's jaw tightened. He closed the folder.
"Park the car by the corner," Vincent claimed. "Wait for me."
"Sir, you shouldn't go in there alone," Thomas protested, reaching for the door handle.
"I'm not going to start a war, Thomas. I'm just going to have a conversation."
Vincent stepped out of the warm luxury of the vehicle into the freezing December air. He buttoned his heavy cashmere overcoat, adjusted his leather gloves, and walked purposefully down the cracked sidewalk toward the tenement entrance. The smell of damp concrete, cheap fried food, and exhaust hung heavy in the air.
He pushed open the heavy, dented metal door of the building. The interior hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and old linoleum. Overhead, a single fluorescent bulb buzzed with a maddening electrical hum, flickering every few seconds.
Vincent climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor, his polished leather shoes striking the floorboards with a sharp, incongruous rhythm.
He stopped in front of apartment 3B.
A faint light shone television beneath the cracked door, accompanied by the muffled sound of a playing an old black-and-white movie, and the rhythmic, steady clatter of someone typing frantically on an old, cheap laptop.
Vincent raised his hand and knocked twice. Firmly. Controlled.
Inside, the typing stopped instantly. The television volume dropped.
Footsteps shuffled softly toward the door, followed by the clanking of a metal chain lock sliding into place. A small, cautious voice called out through the crack.
"Who is it? We don't buy magazines."
Vincent leaned down slightly, speaking clearly through the narrow gap.
"I'm not selling magazines, Iris. My name is Vincent Morgan. I'm Henry's father."
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Silence descended on the other side of the door. Total, absolute silence.
Then, after a long, gonizing pause, the metal chain rattled, the deadbolt turned with a loud click , and the door slowly swung open, revealing the little girl with the green rubber band in her hair staring up at him with wide, intelligent hazel eyes.
