Chapter 44
Samantha's POV
The door clicked shut behind Lucas, his footsteps hurrying down the hallway in that distinctive rhythm I'd come to recognize—quick, uneven, almost frantic. I stood by the window, watching through the gap in the curtains as his figure emerged from the hotel entrance below, practically running toward his car.
Three... two... one.
His car door slammed. The engine roared to life. Taillights flared red in the darkness, and then he was gone, speeding out of the parking lot like something was chasing him.
The moment his car vanished around the corner, I straightened up. The trembling shoulders stilled. The tear-streaked face composed itself.
Then I turned my attention to the real treasure of the evening—the black credit card Lucas had pressed into my hands just before he fled. He'd been so flustered, so guilty about abandoning me alone in this room, that he'd practically shoved it at me without thinking. "For emergencies," he'd mumbled, already halfway out the door. "It's a supplementary card to my account. Use it for whatever you need."
A supplementary card to his account. I turned it over in my fingers now, feeling the weight of it. The embossed numbers caught the light, each digit a promise of power.
Unlimited access, he'd said. For emergencies.
A cold smile curved my lips. "Well, this certainly qualifies as an emergency."
I grabbed my laptop and settled cross-legged on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath me. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I opened an incognito browser window. First search: "private security services Mapleton."
The results loaded quickly. Several companies with bland, professional names. I scrolled past them, looking for something more... discreet. Something that wouldn't ask too many questions.
Then I found it—buried three pages deep in the search results. A forum called "Muscle4Hire." The interface was deliberately basic, designed to look like a outdated car enthusiast board. But certain keywords in the posts told a different story.
I clicked through several threads, reading carefully. Veterans offering "conflict resolution." Ex-police providing "asset protection." Bouncers available for "educational interventions."
Perfect.
I found a service with good reviews—five stars for "professionalism" and "discretion." The contact was a phone number with a local area code. I saved it to my phone, then continued browsing, comparing prices and services. Needed to make sure I got the best value for Lucas's money.
Jack Grey. Just thinking his name made my jaw clench. All those years of his sneering face, his cruel jokes, his casual violence. The bruises he left where Margaret wouldn't see them. The "accidents" that always seemed to happen when no one was looking.
Who's the helpless one now, Jack?
I pulled up my banking app and checked the supplementary card's available credit. My eyes widened. Lucas hadn't been exaggerating about "unlimited." This could cover a lot more than just tonight's lesson.
At 10:47 PM, I dialed the number.
It rang three times before a gravelly voice answered. "Yeah?"
"I need to hire your services," I said, keeping my voice steady and professional. "For educational purposes."
"Uh-huh." The man sounded bored. "What kind of education we talking about?"
"The kind that teaches someone not to mess with people weaker than them. The kind that doesn't leave permanent damage but makes a very clear point."
A pause. "That's gonna cost you."
"Money isn't an issue."
"Alright." Now he sounded interested. "Who's the student?"
"My foster brother. Jack Grey." I rattled off Margaret's address in Mapleton. "He's been threatening me, stealing money I need for school. I just want him to understand that's not acceptable anymore."
"Foster brother, huh?" The man grunted. "Family stuff gets messy."
"That's why I'm paying you to handle it cleanly. No police involvement. Just enough to make the lesson stick."
Another pause. I could hear him breathing, considering. "When?"
"Tonight. Can you do tonight?"
"Rush job costs extra."
"That's fine."
"Alright. Give me two hours. And lady? You never talked to me."
"Understood."
The call ended. I deleted it from my history immediately, then erased the browser data for good measure. Then I called a cab.
The driver gave me a questioning look when I asked him to drop me three blocks from Margaret's house. I paid in cash—Lucas's cash, actually, from the emergency fund he'd insisted I take—and walked the rest of the way.
The neighborhood looked exactly as I remembered. Shabby houses with peeling paint, overgrown lawns, cars up on blocks. My footsteps were silent on the cracked sidewalk.
Margaret's house stood at the corner—a sagging two-story with a chain-link fence and a dying oak tree in the front yard. Lights blazed from the windows. I could hear the TV from outside, that familiar drone of late-night sports commentary.
I still had my key. Of course I did—Margaret had been too lazy to ask for it back when I moved into the dorms.
The lock clicked softly as I turned it. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with barely a sound.
The house smelled the same. Stale beer, cigarette smoke, and Margaret's awful lavender air freshener trying to mask it all. The living room was to my left—I could see the blue glow of the TV reflecting off the walls.
Jack was exactly where I expected him to be: sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, beer can in hand, watching a football rerun. His greasy hair stuck up at odd angles. Three more empty cans littered the coffee table.
Margaret emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She froze when she saw me.
"Samantha." Her tone was flat, unreadable. Not warm, but not hostile either—just the same exhausted indifference she'd always shown me. "You're back?"
"Just for tonight," I said quietly. "My dorm's being fumigated. Emergency situation."
She shrugged. "Your room's still upstairs. Hasn't been touched."
The room wasn't actually converted into a storage space like I'd told Lucas—it was still intact, still livable. But that lie had been necessary. I didn't want to live here anymore, not in this house that reeked of my powerless past.
And more importantly, I needed Lucas to believe I had nowhere else to go, that the hotel wasn't about comfort or luxury—it was about survival. He responded so perfectly to stories of mistreatment, to the image of me as someone who needed saving. Why ruin that with inconvenient truths?
Jack finally noticed me. He sat up, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "Well, well. Little Sammy came crawling home. What happened, princess? They finally figure out you don't belong at that fancy college?"
I didn't answer. Just walked past him toward the stairs.
"I'm talking to you!" He lurched to his feet, beer sloshing from the can. "You think you're too good to answer me now? Just 'cause you got some college boy buying you shit?"
Margaret made a halfhearted gesture. "Jack, leave her—"
"Shut up, Ma." He stumbled forward, getting in my space. His breath reeked of alcohol. "I asked you a question, Sammy."
I met his eyes calmly. "I'm tired, Jack. I'm going to bed."
His face flushed red. "You're tired? You're—"
The doorbell rang. Margaret glanced at the clock on the wall—12:47 AM.
"Who the hell..." She moved toward the door.