Ethan's POV
The eviction notice feels like fire in my hands.
I read it three times, but the words don't change. Thirty days to pay $5,000 or vacate the premises. My landlord's signature sits at the bottom like a death sentence.
I crumple the paper and throw it across the kitchen. It bounces off a pile of dirty dishes and lands on the floor. The floor I haven't mopped in two months. The floor that's sticky with God-knows-what because I stopped caring a long time ago.
My stomach growls. When did I last eat? Yesterday morning? The day before? I open the fridge. One expired yogurt. Half a bottle of cheap vodka. That's it.
The vodka looks really good right now.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I don't want to look. I know who it is. But ignoring Vincent Moretti's calls only makes things worse.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Cross." The voice on the other end is smooth and cold, like a snake made of ice. It's not Moretti himself—he doesn't make these calls anymore. This is Tommy, his collector. "Just a friendly reminder. You owe Mr. Moretti ten thousand dollars. Due date is next Friday."
"I know," I say. My voice sounds tired even to my own ears.
"Do you have the money?"
"I'm working on it."
Tommy laughs. It's not a nice laugh. "You've been 'working on it' for three months. Mr. Moretti is losing patience. You understand what that means, right?"
I understand perfectly. Last month, they sent two guys to "remind" me. I still have bruises on my ribs.
"I'll have it," I lie.
"You better. Because next time, we won't be so gentle. And that nice house of yours? It'd be a shame if something happened to it."
The line goes dead.
I slide down the kitchen cabinet until I'm sitting on the floor. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. How did my life become this nightmare?
Three years ago, I had everything. A great job. A beautiful fiancée. Money in the bank. I was somebody.
Now I'm nobody. Worse than nobody. I'm a ghost haunting his own life.
The house creaks around me. It's falling apart just like I am. Broken shutters. Peeling paint. A roof that leaks when it rains. The neighbors avoid eye contact when I walk by. I'm the scary guy at the end of the street. The cautionary tale parents tell their kids.
Stay in school or you'll end up like that man at 47 Maple Drive.
I need money. Fast. The eviction notice gives me thirty days, but Moretti gives me seven. And Moretti's deadline is the one that matters. You don't get second chances with loan sharks.
That's when I see it. The answer I don't want but need.
Room 7. The spare bedroom upstairs. My parents' old room before they died. I haven't been in there in years. I can rent it out. It's not much, but $800 a month would help. First and last month up front—that's $1,600. It won't save me, but it'll buy me time.
I grab my laptop from under a pile of unopened mail. The battery is almost dead, like everything else in my life. I plug it in and pull up a rental website.
My fingers hover over the keys. What do I even say? Room for rent in house owned by desperate man drowning in debt and bad decisions?
I type: "Room available immediately. $800 per month plus utilities. Quiet tenant preferred. Move in today."
Short. Simple. Desperate.
I post the ad and close my laptop. Nobody's going to respond. Who wants to live with a stranger in a falling-apart house in the worst neighborhood in Ashwood Heights?
But I'm out of options. This is my last play.
I spend the rest of the day cleaning. Not because I want to. Because I have to. If someone actually shows up, they can't see me living like this. I throw away garbage bags full of trash. I scrub dishes until my hands hurt. I try to make Room 7 look decent.
It doesn't help much. The room still smells musty. The wallpaper is peeling. But it has a bed and a dresser. It has a window that looks out over the dead garden. It's something.
By evening, I'm exhausted. My phone hasn't rung. No emails. Nobody wants the room. Of course they don't.
I'm pouring my first drink of the night when the doorbell rings.
I freeze. Nobody comes to this house. Not anymore.
The doorbell rings again.
I walk to the front door slowly. Through the dirty window, I see a shape. A person. A woman.
I open the door.
She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight. Pale skin. Long black hair. Gray eyes that look right through me like I'm made of glass.
"I'm here about the room," she says. Her voice is soft but cold. "My name is Vivienne Ashford."
Something about her makes my skin crawl. Something in the way she stares at me. Like she knows something I don't.
"You want to see it?" I ask.
"No," she says. "I'll take it."
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a thick stack of cash. She counts out bills on my porch. Hundreds. Lots of them.
"Three months' rent," she says. "I can move in tonight."
I stare at the money. It's more cash than I've seen in a year.
"Don't you want to see the room first? Ask questions? Check references?"
Her gray eyes lock onto mine. For just a second, I see something in them. Something dark. Something that looks like hate.
"I already know everything I need to know about you, Ethan Cross," she says.
My blood turns to ice.
She knows my name. My full name. I didn't tell her. It wasn't in the ad.
"How do you—"
"The room," she interrupts, pushing the money into my hands. "I'll take it."
She walks past me into my house like she owns it. Like she's been here before. Her footsteps echo up the stairs.
I stand frozen in the doorway, money in my shaking hands, watching this strange woman disappear into Room 7.
The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds like a lock turning.
And somehow, I know my nightmare has only just begun.