She lives off our parents, my brother Anthony said to his inner circle in the back room of the port tavern.
The sound of shattering glass from inside my row house made me recoil. They were tearing the place apart. I couldn’t go in. My papers, the proof of their corruption, were in there.
I glanced around. The street was empty, a typical quiet South Philadelphia afternoon. No one saw. No one would help.
I spun around, sprinting for the alleyway behind my house. My mind raced, trying to remember the layout. My bedroom window. The fire escape.
I scrambled over a low fence, landing hard on my bad shoulder. A sharp pain shot through me, but I ignored it. I reached the back of my house, heart pounding. My bedroom window was on the second floor.
The rusty fire escape ladder was bolted to the brick. I pulled the handle, and the ladder clanged down, shaking precariously. I climbed quickly, my hands gripping the cold, rough metal. The pain in my shoulder flared with every upward pull.
I reached the second-story platform and fumbled with the window latch. It was old and stiff, but finally, it gave way. I slid through the narrow opening, landing softly on my bedroom floor.
The sounds of ransacking grew louder. They were in the living room, heading for the kitchen. I had only seconds.
Under my bed, hidden beneath a loose floorboard, was a worn leather lockbox. It was a habit from my past, a place for things too important to trust to banks or relatives. I tugged it free, the leather soft and familiar beneath my fingers.
Just as I stood up, a heavy crash echoed from the hallway. “She’s in here!” Cousin Ray’s voice boomed, followed by the splintering sound of wood. He was smashing my bedroom door open.
I didn’t hesitate. I slipped back through the window, onto the icy fire stairwell, the lockbox clutched tight to my chest. Ray’s furious shouts erupted behind me as he burst into the empty bedroom.
“She’s gone! Get her! Don’t let her get away!”
I descended the fire escape two steps at a time, the cold metal biting into my hands. The alley was dark, lined with overflowing dumpsters and broken concrete. I hit the ground running, clutching the lockbox, not daring to look back. The sounds of pursuit faded behind me as I disappeared into the maze of South Philly alleys.
My only thought was the lockbox. It held the key to a bank safety deposit box, and inside that box was the real turning point.
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