Friday came faster than I wanted it to. Noon crept closer, every minute ticking louder than the last. I stood by the front window watching the street, expecting to see the landlord’s sedan pull up, rehearsing what dignity would look like when I handed over my keys.
That’s when the black SUVs appeared.
Three of them. Glossy. Immaculate. Out of place on a street where paint peeled and dreams usually did the same. They rolled to a stop directly in front of Riverside Grill, engines idling, windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside.
My first thought wasn’t salvation. It was fear.
Nora froze behind the counter. A couple of neighbors slowed on the sidewalk, watching. The lead SUV’s door opened, and men in tailored coats stepped out, scanning the street with the kind of alertness you don’t see unless money or power — or both — are involved.
Then the rear door opened.
The man who stepped out wore a charcoal suit so well it looked grown rather than tailored. His hair was neatly combed, silver at the temples. His posture was confident, unhurried. And when he lifted his eyes and met mine through the glass, recognition hit me like a dropped plate.
It was Elliot.
Clean. Polished. Unrecognizable except for those eyes.
He walked inside, the bell ringing again, this time sharp and deliberate.
