Silas Lockhart had his enforcers. Marcus Holloway, his head of public relations—though the title was more akin to “chief fixer”—was a man of quiet efficiency and even quieter ruthlessness.
I received an anonymous, typewritten note, delivered by a messenger who vanished into the afternoon shadows. It simply read: “Uninvited visitors. Change your route home.”
A chill ran down my spine. Silas was escalating.
That evening, I did not take my usual path along West 11th Street. Instead, I circled around, taking the longer, less conspicuous route through the quieter alleys of the Village. As I approached my own street, I saw a dark figure lingering near my mailbox, a man in a bowler hat, his face obscured.
It was Marcus Holloway.
He seemed to be fumbling with something, perhaps a letter, near the slot. Just as I saw him, he stiffened, sensing my presence despite my careful footsteps. He shot a quick glance down the street, then abruptly turned and hurried away, melting into the dusk.
I reached my mailbox, my hands trembling slightly. Inside, shoved haphazardly, was an envelope addressed to me, but clearly not from the post. I didn’t open it. The anonymous tip, Marcus’s hurried departure, the surreptitious planting—it all spoke of a trap.
He had tried to plant a forged letter, no doubt implying I was colluding with Amelia to extort Silas. It was a frame-up, a desperate attempt to turn my search for justice into a criminal act.
Silas, I realized, was no longer just arrogant. He was cornered, and increasingly dangerous.
+ There are no comments
Add yours