Page 12 of Broken Vows

His gaze locks on the money.

“Mr. James, the owner has already⁠—”

“So change their mind.”

“It isn’t quite that simple.”

“It is for you.”

He looks through the glass toward reception again. Making sure she isn’t watching. Making sure nobody can hear. Then he looks back at the cash.

“I can tell the other applicant the owner has decided to withdraw the property from the market.”

“There you go.”

“I’d need the deposit today.”

“You’ve got it.”

“And references.”

“You don’t.”

He freezes.

I lean one hand on his desk. Not much. Just enough to make the wood creak under my palm.

“You’ve got cash. You’ve got a tenant who won’t complain when the roof leaks because he already knows it’s a dump. That’s better than references.”

Johnathon swallows. Then nods.

“Good man.” I scribble my number on a scrap of paper and slide it across. “Call me when you have the keys. And keep an eye out for something better. At least two bedrooms. Yard. Quiet street. I’ll need it soon.”

On the way out, the receptionist gives me a breathy, “Have a good day.”

I nod once and step back into the morning.

No blood. No bruised knuckles. No one crying.

Not bad.

Now I can go home and pack.

I don’t own much. Never have. I buy what I need and nothing more—it makes moving easy.

Theo’s things take up way more room than mine. His dinosaur backpack, a pile of clothes, scattered school papers, half a dozen plastic toys I’m constantly stepping on, and that ratty old blanket he still drags around when he thinks I’m not looking. I shove it all into a big cardboard box.

Then I move on to the weapons.

They’re stashed all over the apartment—some in the safe, the rest in the usual places: false bottom under the kitchen sink, taped behind the fridge, one in the bathroom vent. I pull them out and lay them on the counter.

I look down at my left hand, silently willing it to work. When I try to close my fingers, they twitch in a weak, pathetic jerk. Not enough to grip anything. Not enough to be useful.

Some days it cooperates more. Some days I can make half a fist if I concentrate hard enough and ignore the pain.

Today is not one of those days.

It’s not my trigger hand, but you don’t realize how much the support hand matters until you lose it. My left hand steadies the pistol, threads the suppressor in the dark, and holds the guy still while the knife does the work. All the small things that make me good at what I do.