Too Late, Mr. Winters: I'm No Victim
Chapter 2
The wind on the street hit her like a physical blow. It whipped her hair across her face, stinging her eyes.
Silas came running out of the building lobby, the revolving door spinning frantically behind him.
"Arla!" He shoved the check toward her. "Take it. He insists. It's the severance package."
Arla looked at the paper in his hand. It was freedom. It was comfort. It was an insult.
She took it.
Silas let out a breath, looking relieved.
Arla ripped the check down the middle.
The sound of tearing paper was small, insignificant against the noise of New York traffic, but Silas flinched as if she'd fired a gun. She put the two halves together and tore them again.
She walked to the blue recycling bin on the curb and dropped the confetti inside.
"Tell him I don't take hush money," she said. Her voice was flat.
Silas stared at her. He looked like he was seeing a stranger. The quiet girl who made tea and watched reality TV was gone.
Arla didn't wait for a response. She hailed a yellow cab. It screeched to a halt, smelling of stale coffee and gasoline.
"Queens," she told the driver. "The Starlight Motel."
The driver eyed her Zara coat in the rearview mirror. "That's a long ride, lady. You got the cash?"
Arla pulled a roll of twenties from her purse-her emergency stash-and flashed it. The driver grunted and hit the meter.
As the city skyline receded, Arla pulled a second phone from the lining of her bag. It was an old Nokia, battered and scratched. She held the power button.
It buzzed to life. Immediately, the screen flooded with notifications. Thirty-two messages. All from Victoria.
Where are you, you ungrateful brat?
The lawyers found you. The trust requires you.
Don't think you can hide.
You will show up and do what you're told.
Arla deleted them without reading past the previews.
The taxi dropped her at the entrance of a dingy motel an hour later. The neon sign flickered, one letter dead. It looked like a place where secrets went to die.
She paid for a room in cash, using a fake name. The clerk didn't even look up.
Inside, the room smelled of bleach and regret. Arla dragged her single suitcase onto the questionable bedspread. She didn't knock. She didn't need to. This was her space now.
The first thing she did was sweep for bugs. She found two. A cheap audio transmitter behind the headboard and a pinhole camera in the smoke detector. Amateurs. She disabled them with a small electromagnet from her purse.
Then, she opened her suitcase. Underneath a pile of cheap sweaters, she pulled out three black, brick-sized drives and a portable server unit.
She plugged them in. The lights blinked green in the darkness, reflecting in her cold, focused eyes.
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