Coming Home (The Surrender Trilogy 3)

Like a gap-toothed grin, the Boulevard was made up of storefronts separated by cavernous alleys.

Clemons was three blocks away, and Patras was over four miles distant. Scout liked the location for its practicality. Number twenty-five was an old building. The bottom floor was an office of some sort. At

two thirty, a blue sedan finally pulled along the curb.

“Ms. Keats?” The pudgy older man called as he climbed out of his car.

Scout smiled. “Yes.”

He bustled over and held out a hand. “Name’s Snyder. You ready to see the apartment?”

Nodding, she followed him down the alley beside an office building. A nondescript brown door was

the only interruption in the long brick wall. Mr. Snyder dug out a set of keys and, with a little elbow grease, got the door open.

“I just had new paint and carpets put in.”

The new fibers of the gray rug tickled her nose and tempted a sneeze as she followed him up a steep

set of stairs. The landlord hunched a little once he made it to the top. The entrance was small.

The ceilings were low. Mr. Snyder was short for a man, but seemed hunched in the squat apartment.

Everything was painted a clinical shade of white. There was a small stove on a tiny patch of linoleum

and a sink. No counters. The fridge seemed made for dwarves.

Walking across the new carpet, Mr. Snyder opened a cheaply made wooden door, also painted

hospital white. “This is the bathroom.”

Tiny black and white tiles made up the space. There was a pedestal sink and a claw-foot tub. A

dormer took the ceiling space over the tub from seven feet to about five. She wouldn’t be taking many

showers there.

“Over here’s a closet for your clothes.” It was more like a pantry.

Her stomach sunk and then propelled somewhere behind her heart. She could afford this place. It

wasn’t much, but it could actually be hers if she played her cards right.

This was going to be her home. Her first home. She could make it her own and fill it with personal touches.

Mr. Snyder’s cheeks flushed in a way that spoke of too many heavy meals and not enough light

exercise. He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “What do you think? Utilities won’t be much here.”

Her lungs released a pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It seemed that breath

had been held for twenty-three years. “I’ll take it.”

“Great. All I need is the first and last months’ rent. I’ll take a check. You can move in today if

you’d like. I have the lease here.” He handed her a long, yellow slip of paper with a pink carbon copy

on the back.

Paperwork.

Taking the paper, she glanced over it. It was a lot of printed writing. For the first time she missed

Parker. He always helped her with this sort of thing. “Do you have a pen?”

He handed her a blue pen. “Guess there isn’t really a place to write, being there’s no furniture. Tell

you what. Why don’t you just write out your name there at the top of the lease and sign? I already

filled in the numbers. I’ll do the rest when I get back to my office.”

The literary gods must’ve been smiling on her that day. She carefully wrote her name, then signed

the bottom, much like she’d signed her name at the bank. Finding her temporary checks, she pulled

one out. She thought about what Lucian’s check had looked like.

“The check’s for how much?”

“Thirteen total. Then your next check will be due on the first of June. It’s a month-to-month lease,

but it states you give me sixty days notice of intent to move. Electric’s already set up. The bill arrives on the fifteenth of the month. You can pick it up at the insurance office directly downstairs. Once I get the company a copy of the lease, your name will be added to the account. Cable and phone are your

responsibility to set up.”

Leaning against the stove, Scout drew the numbers 1300.00 in the box on the check and signed her name. Tearing the check from the others, she handed it to him. He frowned. “You forgot the rest,

dear.”

“Um . . .” She swallowed. “I . . .”

He tilted his head. “You special?”

She bristled. “No, I am not special. I . . . I hurt my hand yesterday. Would you mind filling out the rest?” Dickhead.

“Oh, my apologies.”

She scowled at him as he filled in the rest of the check. He turned and held out his hand. “Well, it

was a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Keats. Oh, before I forget. Here’s your key.”

Her heart stuttered. Her key. She took the small piece of carved metal and squeezed it tight, its jagged edges a welcome pinch of reality in her palm. “Thank you.”

After tearing the carbon copy from the lease, Mr. Snyder, her new landlord, handed it to her. “My