“Ms. Hart, it’s just that…” She trailed off, glancing toward the door. I followed her gaze and noticed two burly security guards approaching.
“It’s just that he said if you tried to go back upstairs without completing the tasks he’d given you, he’d have you thrown out of the building.” Her throat bobbed nervously. “Physically, if need be.”
I was quite sure the security guards had received those same instructions by the way they were eyeing me.
Unwilling to give the Roland Shepard any more satisfaction than my failures had already granted him, I left by my own volition. What was stopping me from withdrawing a ton of money and using it to fund my new life in, say, Canada? That was still a viable option. I could probably live up there for quite a while without working, as long as I had this magical, limitless credit card of Roland’s.
And yet what Dan had said stuck with me—that I’d have to belong to someplace eventually. I didn’t want to belong anywhere; I didn’t deserve to. I wanted to live in my car. It sucked, but it was supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to be happy when other people were dead because of my stupid mistake.
Yet, it was so difficult to live on the road, never being quite sure what I would eat next, or if I could get the money to eat, going hungry for days on end—once, for an entire week.
I stood there, outside the building, vacillating back and forth on what to do. I wanted to be here; I wanted to figure out why Shepard Shipments wanted me so badly; and yet, I longed for the road, to be anonymous, for people to know my name but nothing else about me.
The Shepards knew too much.
The niggling fact remained that I didn’t want to have enough money to be comfortable, to have this credit card at my disposal. I’d done a horrible thing, and I didn’t deserve comfort when I’d sent four people to their graves. I didn’t deserve to be helped by anyone if I’d been so irresponsible before.
And there was the fact that Roland’s letter that accompanied the credit card had been so fucking pompous. The fact that I lived out of my car affected company pride? That was bullshit.
I took the card and topped off the tank—that was my first move—as I decided just what I’d do. The open road called me, the need to be punished at the forefront of my mind.
But I still stayed, driving the streets of this beautiful city, the sun trying to peek between the clouds ever so often, the hills, the ferries. Houston had been nothing like this—more of an urban sprawl—but something about Seattle enchanted me.
Maybe it was the thought that things could be different in Seattle. That I could let people know me. That I’d reached the end of my penance in my journey across the country…
No. There wasn’t a point you could reach in your life when you made peace with causing four people to die. There was probably even a special place in hell for people like me.
I’d pulled off to the side of the street, in a spare parking spot, to stare off into space and ponder my situation. Could I really stay in Seattle, at least for as long as it took me to figure out Shepard Shipments? I didn’t dare to try to be happy, but working as the assistant to Roland Shepard would probably ensure that would never happen.
It dawned on me…maybe Roland could be my new punishment? He was acerbic, egotistical, and downright mean. I could accept that abuse and continue to suffer for the sins of my past. Would that be enough?
I turned my head to gaze at the building I stopped in front of, and my eyes widened. A sign was just beyond my passenger’s side window that read: “Apartments for rent.” Was this some kind of gentle nod from the universe to tell me that staying in Seattle would be the right thing to do? Did the universe even still take interest in people as terrible as me?
I made a decision right then and there. No more hemming and hawing. I was going to stay in Seattle; I was going to continue to bear the brunt of Roland’s anger; and I was going to get to the bottom of my suspicions about Shepard Shipments’ interest in me. It definitely couldn’t be that I was a promising employee. I’d proved myself an idiot today, and yet, here I was, holding a company credit card, considering taking out a lease on an apartment, and surprisingly not fired—even when I back-talked the president of the company.
I’d have fired myself for that.
Instead, I went to an ATM, took out an exorbitant amount of cash, signed up for a cellphone, called the number on the sign, and agreed to meet the landlord at the building in an hour.
An hour. What else could I do in an hour?
I bought the laptop, went furniture shopping, rounded out my wardrobe, and purchased some new toiletries.
When I returned to the apartment building, my trunk packed with more possessions than it ever had been, the landlord was already there.
“Beauty Hart, hello!” he gushed. “So nice to meet you.”
He took my hand in his and shook it emphatically.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “I’m interested in renting an apartment in this building.”
“Done looking around?” he asked, sounding eager.
“More like never got started,” I answered, shrugging. “I liked the looks of this building, and I just moved into the city for a new job.”
“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Well, let me show you around your new home!”
The apartment was just what I needed—and then some. It had a beautiful view, wood floors, and ample closet space. The kitchen had brand new modern appliances, and I eyed the stove with something cross between trepidation and excitement. I hadn’t cooked in years, and I’d have to buy all new dishes and pots and pans and utensils. It seemed almost overwhelming to consider…until I remembered Roland’s credit card.
“So, what do you think?” the landlord asked after I’d drifted around the space several more times, imagining what couch would go where, whether I’d splurge on a queen bed or stick with what I was more used to—a twin. Would a queen feel too big? I’d been so used to sleeping in my car that I thought a queen might be a waste of space on me. I’d probably just curl up to sleep and not move a muscle all night long.
“Do you need some more time to consider your options?” he asked. “I would completely understand if you did. Moving in to a new place is a big step, and one that can be overwhelming. Take a day to think about it, if you want. It’s all the same to me. You should be happy and feel completely at home in a place before you sign a lease.”
“No, I’m taking it,” I said, unable to smother a big grin. “I don’t understand why, but it somehow already feels like home.”
The most difficult part of the decision was deciding on a term for the lease agreement. Did I only want to be here month to month? Six months? A whole year? Two years? The wanderlust inside of me—or perhaps just the part of me that was used to being on the road, always moving around, never getting attached to one place—balked at the longer lease term. But finally, I was able to close my eyes and sign a one-year lease. I didn’t know how long it would take me to discover the truth of the Shepards. If it took less than a year, well, maybe I wouldn’t mind continuing to live here.
The rest of the day was spent setting up my utilities, securing other services like Internet and gas, and buying furniture and décor and having it rush delivered that evening to my new home. If Roland had said that money wasn’t an object, I supposed he could afford it.
I sat in a new armchair, fiddling with my laptop as I directed movers where to put my new furniture. On a whim, I opened up my Shepard Shipments email account Myra had given me access to early today and fired off a message at Roland.