goes away permanently. I can’t complain though. All in all, I’m lucky I’m not more injured from the accident.
I walk up the private sidewalk, avoiding the vibrant rainbows the daughter of a Reformatory resident has drawn all over the cement. I kick a hot pink chalk piece out of the way, so no one trips and falls on it and take the stairs to the rundown porch. The porch door creaks as I yank it open and then crashes behind me, the door having long since lost the contraption that lets it ease closed. I have a feeling the house manager, Jacinda, did it on purpose. No one is sneaking out of the front door of this house. Not with that noise. Windows, however, are another story. Not that I’ve tried, but I’ve thought about it a time or two.
Jacinda peeks out into the narrow hallway as I head for the stairs. “Hold up there, Samson.”
That’s Jacinda’s thing, too. She calls us by our last names like we’re already in jail.
I clench my jaw. If she thinks I’m pitching in on the housework for one of the older residents because they were pulled in to take a double shift again, she’s out of her mind. Keep in mind, I’m nearly always pissy on days I go to PT.
I move back around the corner, waiting for her reply. She motions to the kitchen, a sharp nod encouraging me to step inside as her dark eyebrows pull in severely.
I steel myself and walk forward. I’ve been trying to stay on this woman’s good side. Not that it has made a difference because she’s miserable to every last one of us no matter what our attitudes are. “Got someone here to see you,” she says, eyeballing me.
My heart kicks into gear. I try not to seem eager, but I pick up the pace, moving quickly to the outdated kitchen, decorated in sunburnt orange. Trust me, it’s as unfortunate as it sounds.
I turn the corner but pull up when I find a businessman in a suit, and not the kind of suit guys like Johnny wear in the Heights. This suit is off the rack. Probably from JC Penney’s. It’s a means to an end, not a fashion statement.
The guy’s head moves toward the sound of my footsteps skidding to a stop on the linoleum floor. He smiles at me and stands. His eyes are sharp, even if he does look like he should be living in a different decade.
“Kyla Samson?”
“That’s her,” Jacinda says in a sickeningly sweet tone I’ve not heard uttered past her lips yet.
I glance up at her, brows furrowed, but she doesn’t give me the time of day. She only has eyes for the stiff. “What’s this about?” She tries to smile, but it just looks awkward on her face. The frown she constantly wears is more her style.
The guy removes his gaze from her and greets me again. “Kyla?” he asks again.
I nod, hesitantly. I don’t know who this guy is. It could be one of Gregory’s men, a cop, or someone the Crew sent, but my money’s not on the latter.
The gentleman turns an alarming smile on the house manager. “I need to speak with my client alone.”
My back bristles at the same time a swarm of confusion settles over me. Client?
“Samson’s not allowed to have visitors.”
The guy in the suit grins. He’s all teeth, and warning bells ring inside my head. The suit is a cover-up or just poor fashion taste. “I believe you’ll find it’s alright. Feel free to check in with Detective Reynolds on the matter. Kyla?” the suit says, motioning toward the kitchen doorway.
I step through, back bristling still. I don’t like giving people I don’t know my back, so I look over my shoulder at the man following me down the narrow, dimly lit hallway.
“Your room?”
I give him an incredulous look. If he thinks I’m going to take him to my room alone, he’s crazy.
“Ahh, yes. How about we just step out onto the porch then?”
I open the porch door, listening to it scream in protest before taking a seat on the wide railing that boxes in the small porch. He stands in front of me, clasping his hands together at his waist. The first thing I notice is that he doesn’t have anything with him. No briefcase. No bag. He called me his client, yet he has no evidence that we’re doing business here. I sweep him again for any bulges that