Eyes in the Shadows (Hitmen of Ulysses #1)

1. Eleanor

1

Eleanor

But hey, at least it'll be an adventure...

I don’t live in a good part of town.

I may be poor, but I’m not stupid. I know that the guys meeting on the corner at 2 AM are making some kind of illegal exchange. I know that the bar across the street from me has gang affiliations, and not just because of how weird everyone got when I tried to get a beer there after my shift once. I know that the women out on the street dressed in spandex are coatless in January in New Jersey because they don’t want to cover up what’s for sale. I know there’s a reason that the only bench on my block without graffiti is the one with the picture of smiling realtor and biggest slumlord around, Jay Rossi.

I don’t for sure know the reason, but I know there is one. And I suspect it’s related to the rumors I hear about how he’s involved in some shady shit.

Calling Ulysses a city is a bit of a stretch, but it’s big enough and close enough to create a New York City-Philadelphia triangle that means we get what spills out past the boundaries. It’s got your requisite strip malls with liquor stores, tattoo parlors, cheap stuff outlets and Chinese food restaurants, strip clubs standing alone on the side of the road, and parks where no one walks at night without a good reason or pepper spray. It’s also got gated communities, neighborhoods with town homes, hospitals, museums, libraries, churches and a community college.

Like most urban-adjacent places, the wealth distribution in Ulysses is wild. I’m in a rent controlled apartment building near the city center, and just a few miles away is an area full of mansions so enormous and beautiful, all I can think about when I see them is how long it must take to clean one of those bad boys .

Seriously, if you go top to bottom, I bet by the time you reach the first floor you’d have to start over again.

But I’m so far away from Mansion Row that I can’t picture myself ever stepping foot in one. Again, this is the wrong side of town. So, it’s not really surprising when I find a note taped to my apartment door about evacuating our units so they can fumigate the building. It’s not even that surprising to read the words “out of control” and “poses a health risk” to describe the infestation.

What is surprising is the lack of notice. We have to vacate tomorrow morning by 10 AM, and can’t return until Friday morning at 8 AM, a full three days later. There’s a half-assed apology for the short notice and something about a $5 gift card for the inconvenience that I know for a fact the property manager, Ed, will pretend to forget about if anyone approaches him for it. I think he knows most people won’t fight him for $5 if he doubles down on the ignorance act.

I glance each way down the hallway and confirm that the other doors have the same note, and shove my key into the lock with a sigh.

I’m comfortable in the middle apartment on the top floor. Sure, my walls are so thin that I can hear the Paulsons arguing about how opening their marriage is going way better for her than it is for him, and it’s sweltering in the winter when the heat seeps in through the wall from ancient Mrs. Parker’s apartment on my other side. She’s a half-blind Louisiana transplant who can’t handle the snow. They’re fine neighbors otherwise, and they keep to themselves. The people on the other side of the hall—3D through F—are much the same.

One of the most tried and true methods for staying out of trouble in a neighborhood like mine is to keep your head down.

I pull off my hat and scarf immediately upon crossing the threshold and toss them onto the end table next to the couch like they’ve done me a disservice. I run warm, so while the wool helps keep out biting wind and the cute pattern of honeybees makes me feel whimsical and stylish, half the time it’s too much. I usually warm up enough from my walk home from the restaurant that my bangs are plastered to my forehead by the time I get to the top of the second staircase.

My bag falls over onto the entry table with a heavy thunk, scattering the few items I carry everywhere—wallet, keys, phone, lip balm, pepper spray—and I write it off as something to take care of later. I cross the small living space to throw open my window, nearly bumping into the ugly wooden coffee table I found next to a dumpster.

The view is nothing to write home about, mostly some buildings across the street with first floor businesses and apartments above. The bar directly facing us, The Lucky Goat, is one of the only places on the block with signs of life at this hour. A few people are smoking outside the door and I can hear the muffled music and chatter.

I shuck off my coat, which joins the ranks of the scarf and hat, and head to the kitchen to grab a beer. It’s a sad state of affairs in the “space saver” fridge, with three IPAs left in the six pack, a thawed package of salmon filets, a few lemons huddled together in the back corner, an experimental batch of homemade yogurt and several half-empty sauce bottles. The lack of freezer space is really the only thing I let myself be annoyed about with this apartment. I abhor food waste, so I only shop on my day off and try to use everything up by mid-week. It’s getting to be that time.

Trying to enjoy the cold beer in spite of the chill outside, I sit down in the wobbly chair at the table that bisects the single space into a kitchen and a living room. My dining room, I often joke.

It’s not much, but it’s cozy. I’ve got a futon that doubles as my bed, facing a small TV that I never turn on because I don’t want to pay for cable or streaming services, a bright rug that the previous tenant left, some light-blocking curtains I make sure to draw every night so I can sleep in late enough to offset an 11 PM shift conclusion, and colorful drawings from my niece and nephew on the walls.

Hunger gnaws at my belly and I check my phone screen. It’s been a long time since shift meal, and I have too much energy to sleep for a while yet. So, though I’ve been on my feet, preparing food for seven hours, I grab everything edible from the fridge and a box of pasta from my cupboard.

30 minutes later, I text my friend, Harrison, in 3E, and the response bubbles are instantaneous, so I don’t even bother putting my phone down.

Lemon yogurt salmon and pasta?

I’ll bring dessert .

I’ve always loved feeding people. Stuck back in a kitchen, working mostly on prep and final assembly, there’s a divide between me and the customer. I don’t get to see peoples’ reactions when they try something for the first time. I don’t get to watch their enjoyment. I don’t get to learn from my mistakes directly.

For a while I’ve entertained the idea of starting a business and becoming a personal chef for one of those people who live over on Mansion Row. But no one hires a personal chef with no education or credentials. So, I bust my ass in the third nicest restaurant in town, pad my resume and experiment on my own time and dime.

There’s a cursory knock before the door opens, revealing Harrison in the doorway. He holds up a tin of cookies in lieu of a greeting. I eye the note on the top of the container and as I approach.

“Double chocolate chip, huh? How’d you swing that?” I whistle, knowing they’ve got $20 of the good Dutch chocolate in them. In spite of what Harrison thinks, I can taste the difference.

He hands me the box, then pulls the sleeves of his bulky sweater down over his thin forearms to protect against the cold air wafting through my apartment. “As usual, by doing my job. She’s convinced that what I do is some sort of IT magic, but she just kicked the power cord out of the socket again. I think she thinks double chocolate is my favorite.”

I grin to myself, recognizing a flirting attempt from a shy girl when I hear one. Harrison is cute in a nerdy-guy way—about my height at 5’9” with dark skin and eyes and a friendly smile. He’s rail thin, which makes his afro seem even more voluminous, and leans towards a button-downs-and-chunky-knits style that gives off student teacher vibes.

“Why don’t you just tell Stacey that you don’t want them?” I ask as I move over to the window to shut it so he’s more comfortable.

Harrison has used the words “trigger food” to describe cookies in the past, which I take to mean that he has a complex relationship with food totally different from my own. I’ve never asked, and he’s never expanded on it, which is fine by me because I’d rather not get involved in a conversation about weight or body image with someone whose life experiences are all on the opposite side of the scale .

The sound of paper tearing makes me turn to see Harrison tugging at the fumigation notice as he steps inside and closes my front door behind himself.

“Because if I tell her I don’t want them, she’ll stop,” he replies simply. I only laugh, so he expands, “I don’t want her to think I don’t want them. I like that she makes them for me.”

“That’s sweet.” I smile. Their delicate, cautious courtship gives me such vicarious delight. I love love.

“God, it smells amazing in here. I gotta admit, when you said yogurt and pasta, I was pretty skeptical. Whenever you get your own restaurant, you need to put someone else in charge of naming dishes.”

I hand him a plate. It’s a calculated exchange, perhaps over-thought on my part. I fill my plate first, then sit facing away as he takes as much or as little as he wants with no judgment on my part.

He takes the chair across from me and lays the paper in his hand on the table on top of a small pile of mail. He gestures to it with his chin as he carefully twirls the pasta around his fork. “So, what are you going to do for the next three days?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I watch as he takes the first bite, trying not to look too eager and weird, and I smile in satisfaction when his eyes close with bliss.

“Good?” I verify, knowing it is.

“So good.”

I pick up my fork and break off a bite of fish to top the swirl of pasta. It’s got a great balance of flavors—tangy and rich from the yogurt, with plenty of complimentary spices. And the salmon is perfectly done, if I do say so myself.

“Um, I’m really not sure. I haven’t had much time to think about it since I got home. Kind of makes me wish my parents hadn’t moved to Florida last year. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll probably just post up in the library—if I can get there early enough, I can grab one of the study rooms with a door that locks. I’ve got class anyway, so it’ll be nice to be so close to campus. I’ll have to sleep sitting up, but it’s better than spending money I don’t have on a hotel room. ”

I wince, as that one hits a little too close to home. “Maybe I’ll see if Rachel’s wife is okay with me crashing on their couch,” I say, not overly thrilled by that option.

The sous chef at Bistro Jacques, Rachel, is friendly enough, though I wouldn’t call us friends. Her wife, Eliza, came to our Christmas party a few weeks ago. Eliza got drunk and confessed that she’d been nervous to meet me because of how much Rachel talked about me, but then she saw me in person and knew she had nothing to worry about.

I mean, I don’t look much like wiry, petite, bottle-blonde, Jersey-Italian Mrs. Eliza Lee, so if Rachel’s got a type, I’m clearly not it. And I definitely don’t like Rachel like that, but still. Ouch.

“It’s so annoying. This shitty building gets bugs and we have less than 12 hours to figure out where to stay and shower and eat for three whole days… And five bucks? What a slap in the face,” he grumbles, carefully twirling up another tidy bite.

“Yeah, I’d say I can’t believe how short notice it is…” we exchange a look and Harrison chuckles, “but I think we both can believe it.”

“Ed probably forgot to put up the notice until today,” Harrison suggests and I have to admit that it sounds very likely. “You should just come to the library with me.”

“For three days?” I say, unable to stop from wrinkling my nose. “Trust me, we’re not that close. You really don’t want to know what I’ll smell like after three days in a small room with no shower.”

He breezes past my self-deprecation. “They just opened that new gym over on Rider Street, and with the New Year they’re running all kinds of specials. If we both sign up for a free month trial pass, we can shower there.”

I pause, trying to consider it but not getting very far. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not 20 years old and I can’t sleep sitting up. You see, young man, when you’re approaching 30, you start getting this thing called back pain.”

He pretends wide-eyed wonder. “Tell me more of this back… pain? Is that why you have to wear those? ”

I follow his line of sight down to my rubber clogs. I lift my legs and turn my ankles to allow the light to catch on the little decorative buttons I’ve placed in some of the holes. “Don’t tell me you’re a Croc hater.”

“I assume no one actually buys them. I figure, you reach a certain age, and a package just shows up at your door with a pair of reading glasses from the pharmacy and the ugliest shoes in the world.”

My lips twitch. “I don’t need the readers yet, but these bad boys are comfortable. Great for arch support.”

“Even if they are—”

“They are.”

With a huff of a laugh, he tries again. “Even if they are, it’s like 20 degrees outside and they have holes.”

“Hence, the thick socks.”

He tries not to laugh again and fails under the weight of my superior sarcastic deadpan, choosing to cover his eyes instead. “Don’t your socks get wet?”

“I avoid the snow piles.”

“You’re, what, 29?”

“28 for, like, two more months.” My tone is somewhat sharp—I get to joke about being old, he doesn’t get to call me old.

He holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Apologies. All I’m sayin’ is, you’re 28 and you’re wearing shoes just for their arch support?”

“Hey, it’s not pretty, but this is what you get when the adults in your life start calling you an old soul at eight years old.” I grab my phone and hurriedly type a few things into the search bar. “Which is why I refuse to sleep at the library. Want to split a motel room? Looks like the Super Dreams has availability for three nights for $120 before fees. I’ll do 70-30 with you.”

“They’ll need to fumigate again with what we bring back,” he says, frowning with distaste.

I can’t disagree. Any motel room that’s $40 a night around here is the kind of place where you bring your own cleaning wipes and shower shoes, and pray the stains on the rug aren’t blood. Or at least that the police solved the case.

It’s the only place around here cheap enough that I could afford it on my own, but I’d feel a lot safer with Harrison snoring in the other double bed. “80-20? ”

He sighs and takes another bite, chewing slowly. “I guess it’ll be easier than trying to sneak my sleeping bag into the library. I still think we should shower at that fancy new gym.”

I wince, swiping through the pictures that the management at Super Dreams really thought would help sell the rooms. One of the pictures has a small mirror laying on the table in the little sitting area—at least someone remembered to wipe off the lines of coke for the photo. Another photo has a bedspread with some fairly obvious stains.

“Can’t argue with you, there. Maybe we should bring our own sheets.”

“Good idea. I guess it’ll be like an adventure.”

“Yeah, because I love those,” I reply wryly.

I’ve lived in the same crappy apartment, worked the same crappy job for years. I haven’t been on a vacation since my parents took me when I was a kid.

My life may seem small and boring, but I like it. It’s easy. Predictable. Safe.

“You need something to shake things up every once in a while.”