Page 5 of Dominance

“Like I said…he’s dead. I don’t know him. Never did.”

“Understood. But, take my card, please? And this…” He draws out a slip of paper, a photo. Keeping his hands up, he bends down, setting his business card and the photo on the ground, backing away. “If you hear anything, if he tries to contact you, just give me a call, okay?”

I let the chilliest expression settle over my face and stare him down.

“Hint taken. I’ll go.”

Just like that he turns and trots off down the street.

And it hits me how utterly ridiculous the entire encounter was. Right before the jitters hit me, making my hands shake and cold sweat break out all over my body.

“Absolutely insane,” I mutter, fumbling for my keys.

But just as I’m about to go in, I pause.

The photo and the card are in my hand when I head upstairs, collecting my mail, darting into my apartment, and slamming the door. Taking several deep breaths, I slump down at my kitchen table, covering my face with my hands until I calm down.

Just as I’m sorting myself out, I hear a thump on the wall.

“Sweetie. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Mrs. Boucher. Thank you for checking.”

“You sounded distressed. Do you need me to call the police?”

“No, Mrs. Boucher, do not call the police. Everything is fine. I was just in a hurry to get upstairs to use the restroom.”

“Oh, of course, sweetie. I’ll put back on my headphones, then.”

Stupid thin walls.

Scooping up the photo, I flip it over. It’s a shot from an airport security feed. A man getting out of a black SUV, wearing sunglasses, dated a few weeks back on the digital display. A red marker circled his hand, adorned with a huge gold ring, marked with a V, barely visible in the resolution of the picture.

“Neat. A photo of someone I don’t know wearing a ring.”

Setting it down, I sort my mail, needing the distraction. Bills, bills, bills. Overdue notice. The bill for Anna’s tuition. And a letter from my landlord. An eviction notice.

“But I’m paid up!” I hiss, scanning the letter.

Renovations. Remodeling.

They’re terminating my lease because the owner wants to redo this unit.

Slumping back, I bite down on my lip to keep from crying. It’s all too much. Everything is falling apart. It wells up, strangling me.

Clamping down on my anger to keep from screaming, I scatter the envelopes on the table, knocking them all to the floor, the photo, my schoolwork. Everything.

And that’s when I see it.

A letter, the address handwritten, the envelope lying right next to the photo the man gave me. It’s nice stock. Elegant.

No return address.

But the seal on the back looks just like the V in the photo.

A chill settles over me as I sit, opening the letter with shaking fingers to read the first line:

Dear Gloria,

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