My grandmother and I moved into Apartment 3B at the historic Fenwick Building three weeks ago, adopting a stray hound named Buster who roamed the alley.
I scrambled out from under the bed, my legs wobbly from shock. Buster, now quiet, nudged my hand, his soft eyes looking up at me.
The thudding and muffled shouts from the utility closet continued. Pendelton was definitely locked in there.
I called Aunt Sarah, my voice shaking as I explained what had just happened. She listened, her own voice tight with disbelief, but she didn’t question me.
“Stay put, Leo,” she ordered. “Detective Kross is dispatching units now. They should be there in minutes.”
The reality of the situation hit me. Pendelton, a corrupt housing inspector, attempting to break into our apartment in the dead of night to destroy evidence. He was working for Marcus.
Marcus. He must have known about the SIM card, or suspected it. And if Pendelton had failed to retrieve it, Marcus would be panicking.
I peered through the living room window, pulling back the curtain just a fraction.
Sure enough, a light had flickered on in Marcus Gable’s apartment, 4B. The window to his bedroom, usually dark at this hour, now showed a faint glow.
My eyes strained, trying to make out details. I could see movement, a frantic energy.
Then, the light in Marcus’s bedroom went out. A minute later, a different light came on, in his walk-in closet.
I saw a figure moving rapidly, stuffing items into two large duffel bags.
He wasn’t just getting dressed. He was packing. Packing as if his life depended on it.
Then, Marcus emerged from his apartment, not through the front door, but through his fire escape window, which led to a narrow, rickety metal staircase at the back of the building. He was carrying the two duffel bags.
He descended the fire escape steps quickly, almost stumbling in his haste.
He walked with purpose towards the rear parking lot, where his sleek black sedan was usually parked.
He popped the trunk with his remote, tossed the duffel bags inside, then quickly slid into the driver’s seat.
He was fleeing. With evidence against him mounting, his enabler trapped, and police on their way, Marcus Gable was cutting his losses. He was trying to leave Providence before sunrise.
I knew, with chilling certainty, that those duffel bags weren’t filled with clothes for a weekend trip. They were filled with money, his liquid savings, everything he needed to disappear.
Marcus started the engine, the low hum reverberating through the still night. He was backing out of his parking spot, heading for the alley exit.
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