Chapter 6
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Julian’s study, casting long, pale stripes across the mahogany desk. Julian sat in his leather chair, a cold cup of black coffee sitting untouched at his elbow. He had not slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the boy’s brown hair and the intense, steady gaze that had pierced right through his polished defenses.
His phone buzzed on the desk, breaking the stillness. He picked it up. It was a message from his head of security, containing a brief personnel file and an address. Arthur Davis. Former prep kitchen assistant. Terminated last month following a dispute. Attached was a residential address on the industrial east side of the city—a neighborhood of faded brick buildings and narrow alleys where the city’s working class clung to the edges of the boom.
Julian locked his phone, stood up, and walked over to the closet. He stripped off the black tuxedo jacket he had worn the night before, tossing it onto a chair. He pulled on a dark wool overcoat over his white dress shirt, leaving the tie behind.
Thirty minutes later, the Bentley was navigating streets that grew progressively rougher. The soaring glass towers of downtown gave way to rusted chain-link fences, auto body shops, and weathered two-story frame houses with peeling paint. Julian directed the driver to pull over on a quiet corner shaded by towering oak trees.
He stepped out onto the cracked concrete sidewalk, the crisp morning air biting at his face. The address pointed to a modest apartment building with a rusted exterior staircase winding up to the second floor. A faded yellow tricycle sat near the bottom landing, reminding him instantly of the boy who had saved his life.
Julian climbed the metal stairs, each step clanging softly under his heavy shoes. He reached Apartment 2B and raised his hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before rapping his knuckles against the scarred wooden door.
Inside, there was a brief shuffle of movement, the sliding of a deadbolt, and the door creaked open a few inches. A man with tired eyes and dust on his forearms peered out, blinking against the bright morning light.
May you like
"Mr. Vance?" the man asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"Arthur," Julian said quietly, keeping his hands visible in the pockets of his overcoat. "We need to talk."
