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He continues, “If the payment doesn’t show up after twenty-four hours, I will make sure you pay it off manually. I’m not going down for this just because you can’t get it together. I know how good you are at making money. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

I narrow my eyes at his smirk. “How am I supposed to pay you?”

“I’ll text you instructions . . . I’m not fucking around, Anna. You will do this one way or the other. Got it?”

I hate you. “Yes.”

“See?” His voice turns soft again. “You always were my best earner.”

“Fuck you,” I spit back. He takes a large step toward me, and I retreat back into the hallway.

Steve’s leering gaze crawls over me, leaving behind a layer of filth on my skin.

“Get out. Now.”

He chuckles, holding up his arms and retreating backward out the door. He’s mocking me. As soon as he gets to the staircase in the hall, I slam the door closed and turn the lock.

I drop the knife and my legs give out and I slap a hand over my mouth, crumpling to the floor. I can’t believe that just happened. He was here, in my space, close enough to touch me.

The silence in my apartment is deafening. I wait for the threat to feel less real. Like maybe this is just a bad dream—but I’m not that naïve, nor am I that lucky.

There are no fairy tales. No white knights. No one is coming to save me.

Three years.

Three years of healing and hard work to rebuild something stable enough to live in. Come to find out, the home I’d been building, the one Joan said was ready for new rooms, is a house made of glass—and my past just picked up a fucking brick.

Most people spend their days off resting, watching television, or running errands. I’m sitting at my kitchen table studying a shaky YouTube video of a corn maze walk-through from last year like I’m training for a fucking military op. I’m on the fourth play of Kucera Housing Harvest Festival Corn Maze FUNdraiser!

It’s at some country church out in the sticks, one of those tiny chapels with its own cemetery that probably has more congregants buried under headstones than sitting in pews. According to the event website, it’s being held at the same place this year.

Whoever is filming, possibly Anna based on the height of the viewpoint, is following some beaming idiot in flannel who keeps waving his arms around like he personally grew the corn himself. I hope Anna didn’t have to record this. The man turns a corner to find a scarecrow and makes a real show of screaming of fright.

“Dude, have some dignity.” Jesus, I can’t watch another minute of this guy. “Okay, let’s talk strategy,” I say to myself.

I jump ahead and pause the video showing a drone shot above the acres of corn and event area, noting where all the vendor booths are set up, and where the parking is. I screenshot the layout, mark it up on my phone, and then text it to a client who is helping me orchestrate something special.

My brain has already begun building the scene in my head. Full moon, empty corn maze, a couple lanterns, a little clearing in the middle . . .

Anna.

Me.

Two clients of mine that are really into exhibitionism.

I give it a sixty percent chance of working out, which is a higher success rate than most of my life choices, so it’s basically in the bag.

I’ve been replaying our date last Friday, when I brought her to my favorite spot in the city. How fucking gorgeous she looked in the lights. Our almost-kiss. And that night . . . watching her after I dropped her off at home? Christ, hearing her say my name had me wanting to risk it all. I am gone for this woman.

Growing up, I was bounced around to different foster homes; there was no permanence, no safety. The homes were often run-down, and for the most part it was simply due to kids being kids, rough housing and shit. Some families were great, but I never seemed to stay there long, or maybe it just seemed that way. I also stayed at some not-great places . . . really not great.

Year after year, that hope was eaten away. I watched kids like me age out and end up homeless after they were spit out by the system without enough resources and support to get their feet under them. Hell, I went through the same thing while living out of my car.

And then there’s Anna. Whatever she’s been through is one of the ugliest sides of humanity, yet she’s got this picture-perfect apartment that’s so homey. Filled bookcases, decorated with pretty vases and picture frames. She has a perfectly organized fridge and pantry.

We’ve both seen some shit, but she came out the other side and made a life for herself, and there’s something so fucking admirable about the way she’s taken the rough and ugly and turned it into warm lamps, plush cream bedding, and too many throw pillows. She knows hard, yet chooses to be soft. I want that. She didn’t wait for someone to give her a home, she made it.

I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation in that she made me earn this friendship of ours. Not to mention the whole taboo client relationship thing.