Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Subbasement
The black Maybach dropped Adeline off two blocks from her apartment building in a gritty, transitional neighborhood where the streetlights buzzed and flickered like dying fireflies. Marcus insisted on walking her all the way to her front stoop, standing sentinel in the dark doorway until she successfully unlocked her deadbolt and slipped inside.
She locked the door behind her, threw the chain, and leaned her forehead against the cool wood, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
Her apartment was tiny—a studio filled with thrift-store furniture, the smell of old books, and the comforting hum of a small radiator under the window. But tonight, it didn't feel safe. Every shadow in the corner seemed to stretch. Every creak of the old wooden floorboards sounded like a boot stepping on concrete.
She went straight to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tap water, and sat at her small laminate kitchen table.
Why had Julian Vance asked about the shredders?
She replayed her shift last night in her mind. Suite 1912. A high-end tax consultancy firm that rented space on the nineteenth floor. She had emptied three large, heavy-duty cross-cut shredder bins into her collection bag. The paper inside hadn't been fully destroyed; some of the strips were jammed in the teeth of the blades. She remembered pulling a tangled wad of paper out of one machine because it was jammed, tossing the gray clump into her trash liner without really looking at it.
Was there something on those papers? Financial records? Offshore accounts? Names?
Before she could dig deeper into her own thoughts, a sharp knock echoed against her apartment door.
Adeline froze. The glass of water in her hand trembled, ripples forming on the surface.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn't a frantic pounding. It was rhythmic, deliberate. Three slow strikes.
She crept across the floor, her heart hammering in her throat, and peered through the wide-angle peephole.
The hallway was dim, illuminated only by a buzzing amber overhead bulb. Standing outside her door wasn't a hitman, and it wasn't Marcus.
It was a woman. Mid-forties, wearing an expensive camel-hair trench coat that looked completely out of place in the dingy tenement building. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight, professional chignon, and she was holding a manila folder against her chest with both hands.
May you like
Adeline hesitated, her hand hovering over the deadbolt. "Who is it?" she called out, keeping her voice low.
"My name is Eleanor Vance," the woman whispered through the wood. "Julian’s sister. And if you don't open this door right now, neither of us will live to see sunrise."
