Page 16 of Tiebreaker

I don't know how long I lay there running my fingers through his fur, the feeling of it grounding me.

The tears ended at some point.

Now my heart is just empty and wrung out.

At least my wallet isn’t. A little less than $3,000 after my days of ordering food in, but it’s enough to keep me going for a while. It is certainly more than I make at the coffee shop in a month.

I close my eyes and drift, hoping sleep will tug me back down, but a knock at the door startles me out of my half nap and I jerk upwards.

Toby’s mewing in panic as I nearly roll over onto him.

“Olivia Copper?” An official sounding voice calls from the other side of the thin door.

I get to my feet out of habit of obeying those kinds of voices that just tell you what to do, and make my way towards the door.

I open it without thinking.

It could be someone who's not safe. I’m not expecting anyone, and the fear that grips my heart claws there in a way that it wouldn't have four days ago.

A short man stands in front of me with ginger hair closely cropped and a matching, neatly trimmed ginger beard. He's dressed in a sharp black suit, expensive from the cut of it, and has a leather folio under his arm.

His eyebrows raise up toward his hairline as he takes me in. I look to the side and catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror that runs down the outside of the door to my bathroom.

Right. I look like leftover shit.

My hair is messy and there's deep circles under my eyes and my cheeks are red, from crying. The same as my nose.

I'm in a pair of baggy sweats and an old t-shirt that's got food stains on it from the last few days.

I've just existing.

He clears his throat, and I look back at him.

“Olivia Copper?” He says again, lifting his folio out from under his arm.

“What is that?” I ask, feeling a sort of tired dread fall over me.

The world really couldn't get worse right now. There's no way that the universe could punish me in some other horrific way then it already has done. I'm out a job, and I'm out that thin veneer of safety, that I had wrapped around myself.

He peers past me into my little studio apartment.

“Ah,” he says, “is this a bad time?”

My lower lip trembles.

“I’m sorry. Could you tell me what you're here for,” I ask. “I’m not late on my rent, I paid it.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m a solicitor with Arion Investments, and I'm here on behalf of the company to dispense with some sensitive business. I can come back later though or perhaps I could take you for coffee and we could discuss-”

The word coffee makes me flinch.

And he seems to notice.

“Whatever would work best for you,” he says, his tone turning gentle, almost kind. He has brown eyes like a hound dog and his short stature is non-threatening. He almost reminds me of an uncle. That kind of figure, someone that you could play games with at the family reunion, who would tease you mercilessly over puzzles and Connect Four.

Whatever he needs to talk to me about sounds serious. The fact a lawyer has showed up on my doormat is making me nervous, and I think of that 3k, sitting in an envelope like a scarlet letter anyone can see.

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