He never forgot his mother, apologizing for things that were not his fault.
Ethan picked up the phone and called the only person he trusted for tasks that required discretion.
“Marcus, I need you to locate a phone number right now.”
Twelve minutes later, Ethan had it all.
Clara Whitmore.
Twenty-eight years old.
Address: Apartment 4F, 1847 Sedwick Avenue, Riverdale.
Single mother.
An eight-month-old daughter.
Former accountant at Harmon Financial, laid off three months ago.
She currently works part-time as a cashier at QuickMart.
The credit report weighed heavily on her chest.
Credit cards maxed out.
Medical debts related to childbirth.
He paid $25 each time.
A car that was seized two months ago.
Preliminary eviction documents filed three days ago.
This woman was drowning.
Ethan grabbed his coat.
“Marcus, meet me in the garage. We’re going to stop.”
On the way, they stopped at a 24-hour pharmacy.
Ethan walked through the aisles alone, ignoring the cashier’s gaze.
Formula milk.
From the face.
Three cans.
Diapers.
Baby food.
Children’s Tylenol.
A soft blanket with stars.
Then, groceries from a delicatessen that was still open for the Christmas season.
Real food.
Fresh fruit.
Good bread.
Things that Clara Whitmore probably hadn’t been able to afford in months.
The building on Sedwick Avenue was neglected.
Decades of neglected maintenance.
Landlords who squeezed every last penny out of the tenants without giving them anything in return.
The hallway smelled musty.
Half the lights were burned out.
The elevator had an out-of-service sign that seemed permanent.
They climbed four flights of stairs.
From apartment 4F, Ethan heard a faint sound, almost like a cat meowing.
A baby crying.
Too tired to cry anymore.
He knocked on the door.
Footsteps sounded inside.
Light.
Hesitant.
-Who is it?
A woman’s voice, high-pitched with fear.
—My name is Ethan Mercer. I received a text message meant for someone named Evelyn. A message asking for help.
Silence.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I brought the formula. Please open the door.”
Seconds passed.
Then, the lock clicked.
The door opened a few inches,
held shut by a chain lock.
Through the crack, Ethan saw a face.
Young but tired.
reddish-brown hair gathered in a messy ponytail.
Red eyes.
She was petite, wearing an oversized sweater with a hole in the sleeve, and holding a baby in her arms.
The baby had his mother’s reddish-brown hair.
Her cheeks were pale instead of pink.
Sign of a child who is not eating enough.
“You are Clara Whitmore.”
Her eyes opened wide.
He saw how the fear intensified.
