Chapter 23 I Just Got Evicted
Harper's Pov,
I grabbed the flash drive and walked out to Maya's car. She took one look at my face and started the engine without a word.
"Richard's trying to get Crew fired," I said, buckling my seatbelt. "He's got a whole presentation ready for the Titans management. Emma gave me all the evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"Of everything. The plan, the coordination with Joel, the threats, all of it." I held up the flash drive. "It's all here."
"Then we leak it. We show everyone what they've been doing."
"And get sued for releasing confidential communications? Or get Emma arrested for corporate espionage?" I shook my head. "Richard's too smart for that. He knows I can't use this publicly without destroying myself in the process."
"So what's the point of Emma giving it to you?"
“I don't know yet. But at least I know what I'm up against."
Maya pulled into traffic, her jaw tight. "So what are you going to do now?"
"Well, first… I need to go to my apartment. I've been living out of the same three outfits for a week and I need actual clothes. Plus my laptop, some documents, my–" I paused, trying to remember what else I needed.
"On second thought, I should probably start packing everything. I'm not going back there to live. Not with paparazzi camped outside."
"You can stay with me as long as you need."
"I know. But I still need my stuff." I looked out the window at Seattle passing by in gray and rain. "Can we swing by there now? Get it over with?"
"You sure? Those photographers might still be there."
"They're definitely still there. But I can't avoid my own apartment forever."
Maya changed lanes, heading toward my building. "We go in fast, grab what you need, get out. Fifteen minutes max."
"Twenty. I need to actually pack things properly."
"Fine. Twenty. But I'm timing you."
We drove in silence for a few blocks. Maya drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, like she was debating whether to say something. Then she finally asked, “So what are you going to do about Crew? Are you telling him about Richard’s plan when you see him?”
"For now, I don't know. I have seven days to figure it out." I pressed my forehead against the cool window.
"Part of me thinks he deserves to know. But the other part thinks telling him will just stress him out when he should be focusing on recovery."
"There's no good answer."
"There never is."
We turned onto my street and I immediately spotted them. The paparazzi had thinned out, only five or six photographers now instead of twenty… but they were still there, and still waiting.
"Vultures," Maya muttered, pulling into a spot half a block away. "Okay. Head down, don't answer questions, walk fast. I'll run interference."
"Maya, you don't have to–"
"Yes I do. Let's go."
We got out and started walking toward my building. It took maybe ten seconds before someone noticed.
"Harper! Harper Sinclair!"
Then they were moving, cameras up, closing in from both sides of the street.
"Harper, have you spoken to Crew Lawson since he entered rehab?"
"Are you planning to attend Joel Hartley's wedding?"
"Do you regret attacking Brianna Cross?"
Maya put herself between me and the closest photographer, using her body as a shield. "Back up. Give her space."
"Just a few questions…"
"No questions. Move."
We made it to my building's entrance and I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking. The lock finally clicked and we pushed through the door, slamming it shut behind us.
The sudden silence was almost worse than the noise.
"You okay?" Maya asked.
"Yeah. I'm fine." I wasn't fine. My heart was racing and my hands were still shaking and I felt like I might throw up. But I was upright and breathing, so that counted for something.
We headed for the stairs, my apartment was only on the third floor and the elevator was always broken anyway. Our footsteps echoed in the stairwell, loud and hollow.
When we reached the third-floor landing, I saw him.
Mr. Patterson, my landlord, was standing outside my apartment door. He was in his sixties, wearing khakis and a cardigan, holding a manila folder and looking deeply uncomfortable.
My pulse kicked up a notch.
Whatever this was, it sure wasn’t going to end well…
"Mr. Patterson." I stopped a few feet away. "What are you doing here?"
"Harper." He shifted his weight, not quite meeting my eyes. "I was hoping to catch you. I've been trying to reach you by phone and email but–"
"I've been staying with Maya. I haven't checked my apartment email in a few days." I pulled out my keys. "Is everything okay?"
"Can we talk inside? This isn't really a hallway conversation."
My hands were shaking worse now as I unlocked the door. We all filed into my small one-bedroom apartment, and I was suddenly aware of how it must look; dishes in the sink from a week ago, mail piled on the counter, everything slightly dusty from neglect.
Mr. Patterson stood in my living room, still holding that folder, still looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"What's going on?" I asked, even though I already knew. Some part of me had known the second I saw him standing outside my door.
He opened the folder and pulled out a document. "Harper, I'm really sorry about this. You've been a good tenant for two years. Never late on rent, never caused problems, always respectful to the other residents."
"But?"
"But I've received complaints from other tenants about the photographers outside the building. They're blocking the entrance, making people uncomfortable, taking photos of everyone who comes and goes." He handed me the document.
"And I've had two families decide not to rent available units because of the media attention. It's affecting my ability to maintain the property."
I looked at the paper in my hands.
‘30-Day Notice to Vacate.’
"You're evicting me."
"I'm giving you notice that I won't be renewing your month-to-month lease." His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "You have thirty days to find a new place. That's the full legal requirement. I'm not trying to rush you out, but—"
"But I need to go." I set the notice on my counter, my hands surprisingly steady now. "I understand."
"I really am sorry, Harper. If it were just the news coverage, I could handle that. But the photographers are becoming a liability issue. One of them knocked over Mrs. Chen from 2B yesterday trying to get a shot through the lobby window. She's threatening to sue."
"It's fine, Mr. Patterson. Really." I looked around my apartment… the place I'd lived since moving to Seattle, the first place that had felt like mine after ten years of following Joel around.
"Thirty days is plenty of time."
"If you need a reference for your next place, I'm happy to provide one. Like I said, you've been a model tenant. This isn't about you personally."
"I know." And yes, I did know. This wasn't Mr. Patterson's fault. This was just another consequence of my life becoming a public spectacle. "Thank you for coming to tell me in person instead of just taping a notice to my door."
He looked relieved. "Of course. I'll be in touch about the move-out inspection and deposit return. Take care of yourself, Harper."
He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and suddenly the apartment felt very small and very empty.
"Harper…" Maya started.
"I'm fine." I walked to my bedroom and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. "Let's just pack. I want to get out of here before those photographers figure out we're inside."
"You don't have to do this right now. We can come back another day."
"And waste one of my thirty days?" I started pulling clothes from my closet, folding them manually. "No. I'm doing this now. I need to start dealing with reality instead of hiding from it."
Maya watched me for a moment, then went to my bookshelf and started taking down books. "What do you want to keep and what can we donate?"
"Keep the PT textbooks and anything by Toni Morrison. Everything else can go."
We worked in silence for a while, filling boxes and bags with pieces of my life. My diplomas from the wall. Photos from my desk. The coffee maker I'd bought when I first moved in, back when I thought I'd be here for years.
I was packing up my bathroom; toiletries, medications, the good towels… when Maya called from the living room.
"Harper? Your phone's ringing."
"Let it go to voicemail."
"It says 'Mom.'"
I froze, toothbrush in hand.
My mother. Calling me.