Chapter 2

TWO

ELLIOT

Tatianna: Payback

Tatianna: I deserve karmic retribution

Tatianna: Why hasn’t karma given him the plague by now

Rachel: maybe karma needs a slap in the face

Repeats of the same conversation had filled our group chat over the past week, including the days Rachel and Amir had spent on their honeymoon cruise. It left me wondering about the cute blonde from the photo booth.

Was she the one dating Armstrong at the same time as T? There was something special about her, something that had me wanting to ask if anyone knew her identity. Whoever she was, and wherever she was, I hoped she was doing well.

Rachel: I take that back

Rachel: you should slap that cheating jerkwad in the face

The first time I saw Bradford Armstrong with T, I’d warned her the man was a soulless degenerate. She’d laughed it off and promised me I was overreacting. She’d brought him around despite my warnings. I’d stopped hanging out with the group any time he might be there.

The space had been nice, actually.

Still, the urge to text back I told you so was strong.

Instead, I silenced my phone and knocked on Mrs. Clifton’s first floor door.

“Hold your horses.” The muffled voice came from somewhere far beyond the door. Grunts and footsteps followed.

The door opened, then jolted against the chain.

Through the crack I could see Mrs. Clifton’s jaw clench as she jiggled the chain. Her hair was in rollers. A cigarette hung out the corner lip, like it was attached there by glue. She reminded me of my aunt.

Finally, she unclipped the chain and swung the door all the way open.

“I told you, Linda, I don’t keep sugar. Go to the store yourself and—” She let out a long exhale as her gaze snapped to me. A crease formed between her brows. The cigarette dropped a quarter of an inch down her chin, but somehow did not fall from her face. “It’s you.”

Her tone wasn’t the friendly greeting I’d expected. I’d visited Mrs. Clifton six times over the past month to discuss the equity sharing investment I’d offered to the residents of the Pinecone Heights condominium.

Mrs. Clifton was the building’s spokesperson. Along with providing all of the generous details of my offer, I’d buttered her up with gifts of her favorite chocolate covered pretzels at every one of our meetings.

She glanced at the package of those very pretzels I held out in offering now.

Then she scowled.

Something had happened between my meeting with her three days ago and now—something that had made her opinion of me sour.

Tension threaded across my shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Clifton. Can I offer you another pack of pretzels?”

“You can offer.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I won’t take ’em.”

“Is something the matter? The pretzels are a no-strings gift.”

If the pretzels primed her to sign the contract, all the better. But I had a sinking feeling that wasn’t going to happen today, not when she was looking at me like I’d murdered her puppy.

Whatever had gone wrong…I knew whose fault it had to be.

Bradford Armstrong.

He’d done something nefarious.

Sabotage was his specialty.

“You know exactly what you did,” Mrs. Clifton said. “Don’t you come back here.”

She slammed the door in my face with a loud thud.

“I really have no idea,” I said.

A numbness settled in my chest. This was just the latest in many obstacles Armstrong had thrown in my path.

But I’d pivot, like I always did. Pinecone Heights was too important to let go. It was the last residential building in Epiphany’s Oldbridge District that hadn’t been bought up, torn down, deteriorated, or otherwise renovated.

The residents deserved the chance to stay in their homes. They deserved a voice in what their neighborhood would become.

It was my mission to fight for them, and for the integrity of this district.

If only I could make them understand that.

I stepped out of the building into the crisp winter air. Disappointment tainted my thoughts. Questions swirled through my mind.

“That’s quite the frown.”

Every muscle in my body clenched at the sound of the devil’s voice.

Of course he was here. There was nothing Armstrong enjoyed more than seeing the aftermath of his handiwork.

An electronic click told me he was snapping a picture, probably of my frowning face, to add to his scrapbook of torture victims for future savoring.

The best thing I could do was ignore him. Maybe if I manifested it hard enough, he’d evaporate from existence.

His voice belonged to a snake oil salesman, too smooth to be trusted. His was the kind of face built for punching, too plastic to be real.

He moved onto the step below me, putting us eye-to-eye and way too close together.

I wasn’t short. It only felt that way when standing toe-to-toe with unnaturally elongated Bradford Armstrong.

I leaned to the side, unwilling to let him intimidate me into taking a step back. “While you’ve made your obsession with me clear, you’re not my type.”

He scoffed. “I’m not trying to kiss you.”

“I never said you were. Interesting that’s where your mind goes.”

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, which made me inwardly smile.

But then Armstrong outwardly smiled. It was a cruel grin, the kind that belonged on the green face of a pantless man-creature preparing to steal Christmas from Whoville.

“It’s where Mrs. Clifton’s mind goes that matters,” he said. “Word is she’s disgusted with your online reviews.”

Was this a lie…or the reveal of his newest devious plot? “My reviews are solid.”

“Are they?” Armstrong raised a brow, then slammed his fist into the top of the package I was holding.

I hadn’t expected physical assault. My mind was too busy trying to untangle the specifics of his latest sabotage to anticipate anything.

The package clattered against the steps.

The end flew open.

Pretzels flew in every direction and cracked when they hit the cement.

Armstrong laughed. Then he strolled inside the building and left me scrambling to pick up the crumbs.

I hated him.

I hated him with a passion that rivaled my passion for saving Oldbridge District.

With the pretzels gathered, I returned to my Bronco and sank into the driver’s seat. I pulled out my phone, took a breath, and scanned through the digital damage.

Elliot Barlowe promised my parents steady income if they invested with him. Instead of the retirement they were promised, they got a property tax bill on a building that doesn’t exist. He stole their life savings! - John Hammy

I hadn’t worked with any Hammys. And I didn’t invest other people’s money.

Conman Elliot Barlowe promised me the opportunity of a lifetime. Now I have to live in the swamp. - Tom Bruise

What? Why would he have to live in a swamp?

I’m old and sick. He stole my kidney. I ate him. - Maryland Monrue

Was that supposed to be hate?

Endless one-star reviews filled the page.

It was all lies…lies from fake people with almost-famous names.

I set my phone next to the package of broken pretzels and started driving. The last thing I needed was to be sitting in front of Pinecone Heights when Armstrong came back out.

Sure, Armstrong had screwed with me in the past by locking in exclusive deals with contractors I was already working with. He’d caused delays in my permits and inspections. Every time, he’d used his father’s financial and political influence to thwart me.

But this was an entirely new form of attack, one I had no idea how to counter.

When I got home, I was still in a state of shock. I parked my Bronco and let my legs carry me on autopilot.

I had no idea how to stop Armstrong and save Pinecone Heights.

I stepped into the lobby.

“Hey.” Vivian waved from the mailboxes.

I figured I might as well stop and grab my mail, too. “Hey.”

Vivian’s black hair framed her face like velvet curtains. Her oversized sweater was red. In the center was a giant pickle with a string of Christmas lights coiled around it.

She lived next door. When I moved into the building a few years ago, she’d welcomed me with a plate of the worst brownies I’d ever tasted. Since then, I’d gone to a few of her social events—poker, awards shows, sports. I’d attend just about anything as long as she wasn’t cooking.

“Nice sweater,” I told her.

“It’s ugly sweater weather all December long. You want one?”

“I’m good.”

“You don’t look good. You look like someone stole your cookie.”

“Worse,” I said. “He punched a whole package of chocolate covered pretzels onto the ground.”

“What a monster.”

I nodded.

“Nemesis again?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“You need to stop reacting. It’s time to be proactive.” Vivian handed me a red envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Your ticket to flipping the script on that nemesis of yours.”

Whatever that meant, my answer was easy. “I’m in.”