“He thinks you’re living in a cheap motel, completely broken,” Chloe said softly.

“Let him think it,” I said.

“I’m not begging anyone for mercy anymore.

I’m bringing the receipts.”

By ten fifteen that night, the sixth floor of the downtown office tower was dark, quiet, and cold, with only the faint hum of the floor buffers down the hall.

I pushed my gray cleaning cart along the executive carpet, emptying heavy brass wastebaskets into a fifty-gallon trash bag while my lower back burned with a constant ache.

Detective Frank Miller came out of the stairwell door, adjusting the strap of his shoulder holster under his tweed jacket.