Chapter Three
Estelle
T he apartment was quiet in the way only early Saturday mornings could be, wrapped in that fragile hush before the city remembered how to scream.
Pale sunlight filtered through the single window in my bedroom. The one that faced the brick wall of the building next door, instead of anything resembling greenery.
My body ached with the exhaustion that had become my permanent state, a weight that settled into my bones like lead and refused to leave. Every muscle felt wrung out, stretched thin as the threadbare sheets tangled around my legs.
I lay there for an extra five minutes before I had to pretend I was strong enough for this.
Thankfully, it was Saturday, which meant I got to wake up at seven instead of five in the morning.
These two hours were mine. My reward for surviving another week of bus routes, legal threats, and the crushing weight of keeping us both alive .
The silence meant Leo was still lost in whatever dreams five-year-olds had. Probably dinosaurs and playgrounds and worlds where guardians didn't check locks three times before bed.
I rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and made the thin sheets. Everything in this apartment was thin—the walls that leaked our neighbors' fights, the curtains that barely blocked the streetlights, the margins we lived within that grew smaller every day.
The kitchen was three steps away. I made coffee, the slow bloom of steam curling in the air like incense for the desperate.
I poured myself a mug and cupped it in both hands, letting the heat seep into bones that always felt cold now. The coffee was bitter as the truth that this was probably the closest thing to luxury I'd taste today.
At least it was warm.
The apartment bore the evidence of our life like crime scene markers: crayons scattered across the table where Leo had been drawing his latest dinosaur masterpiece, laundry spilling from a plastic basket, and tiny footprints tracked across the bathroom floor in fading purple paint—courtesy of bath crayons I'd "borrowed" from Seaside Academy's supply closet.
Just like the way I "borrowed" those granola bars from the teacher's lounge last week.
I moved quietly through our space, gathering dishes that looked older than I felt, stacking them in the sink that had been stained brown long before we'd moved in.
The apartment's previous tenants had left their mark everywhere.
Water damage bloomed across the ceiling like toxic flowers, a persistent smell of poverty that no amount of bleach could conquer.
Some people woke up in houses with multiple bathrooms and marble countertops. Some people didn't know the sound their walls make when the building settles like old bones.
But I didn't resent those people. Much. I just wondered what it felt like to wake up without immediately calculating how to survive.
Leo deserved those marble countertops, those multiple bathrooms, that life where weekend plans didn’t include which bill to pay and which to ignore.
It was nearly eight when I finished weekend chores and started a load of laundry in the ancient machine wedged into our bathroom. The thing sounded like it was digesting metal, but it cleaned our clothes well enough not to look homeless.
I sipped my coffee near the window, watching the city wake up in shades of gray.
A dog walker in a neon jacket shuffled past, head bowed low to avoid eye contact with anything that might demand interaction.
Across the street, a woman hurried to her car with keys clutched between her fingers like brass knuckles.
We all knew the rules here: move fast, keep your head down, trust no one, and pray tomorrow looks better than today.
I was folding Leo's t-shirts, softened with age and love, when the knock came. Three sharp raps that shattered the morning's fragile peace like a rock through glass.
My stomach clenched, coffee turning to acid as it hit my empty belly.
Owen. It had to be. The only person who knocked like that.
I set the shirts aside with hands that wanted to shake and wiped my palms on my sleep shirt, steeling myself for another round of verbal warfare.
I caught my reflection in the mirror—brown hair escaping its messy bun, light brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion, skin that looked translucent in the harsh morning light.
I looked exactly like what I was: a woman stretched too thin, running on caffeine.
I opened the door just enough to block his view of our humble disaster zone, my foot wedged against the bottom edge in case he tried to push his way in.
Owen filled the doorway like a sweating mountain, his thinning hair slicked back and his shirt straining over a gut that spoke of too many beers and too few consequences .
My landlord.
He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave, a combination that made my stomach lurch. His eyes raked over me with the hungry intensity of a man who'd been divorced three times and probably thought he wasn’t the problem.
"Morning, Ms. Moore," he said, his tone carrying that particular blend of authority and sleaze that made my skin crawl. "Just doing my rounds. Rent's due Monday, you know. Don't want any... misunderstandings."
The pause before 'misunderstandings' carried enough weight to crush what was left of my weekend peace.
I forced a polite smile, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake Leo. "I know, Mr. Owen. I'll have it."
I'll have most of it. Maybe.
He leaned in closer, his gaze sliding past me like oil seeking cracks to fill, searching for some sign of weakness he could exploit. The sour tang of last night's beer hit me, and I fought the urge to gag.
"You're always cutting it close, girl," he continued, voice dropping to what he probably thought was smooth. "Management doesn't like that. It makes them nervous. Makes me nervous."
The words itched over my skin like insects. I gripped the door tighter, knuckles white against the scarred wood as I fought not to snap at him. "I'm not late, am I?"
He smirked, showing teeth stained yellow. "Not yet. But you know how it is. Rules are rules. Wouldn't want to see you and the boy out on the street."
His eyes dropped to my legs, lingered there, then crawled back to my face. "Though I'm sure a pretty thing like you could find... alternative arrangements."
The implication was thick and rancid as spoiled milk. My skin crawled, but I kept my expression neutral, carved from stone and necessity. I'd learned long ago that showing fear to men like Owen only made them harder to handle .
Alternative arrangements . Like I hadn't heard that suggestion from every landlord, boss, and authority figure who'd realized I was young, alone, and desperate enough to consider options that would destroy me.
"You'll have your money," I said, my voice flat and clipped.
He shrugged, pretending to be magnanimous while his eyes continued their inventory of my body. "Just looking out for you. A nice girl like you, all alone in this neighborhood with a kid that ain't even yours..."
He let the sentence hang, then stepped back with obvious reluctance. "You ought to be more careful. Pretty girls like you attract the wrong kind of attention."
The wrong kind of attention from men exactly like him. I bit back a snarky remark.
"Monday," he called over his shoulder as his heavy feet thudded down the walkway like a countdown timer. "Don't forget."
I closed the door hard, the sound echoing through our thin walls. My hands shook as I turned the deadbolt and slid the chain beneath the handle.
I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, willing my heart rate to slow, willing the anger and revulsion to settle into something manageable.
I hated that he could get to me, that a few words could unravel the fragile peace I'd built for myself in these stolen morning hours.
Alternative arrangements.
The phrase echoed in my head like a curse. Men like Owen looked at women like me and saw opportunity wrapped in desperation. Young face, no wedding ring, no father or boyfriend to object, I might as well have worn a sign advertising my vulnerability.
"Elle?"
Leo's soft voice cut through my spiral of rage and self-pity. I turned to see him blinking sleep from his eyes, hair sticking up as usual, clutching his stuffed T-Rex to his chest.
I smoothed my expression, burying the fear and disgust where he couldn't see them. "Just Mr. Owen," I said, forcing warmth into my voice. "Nothing to worry about. Go wash up, okay? I'll make pancakes."
His face lit up like I'd offered him the moon served on a silver platter. "The kind with chocolate chips?"
“Of course.”
He hurried to the bathroom, clearly excited. I watched him go, my heart performing its daily routine of breaking and mending simultaneously.
I set about making breakfast, pouring the cheapest batter money could buy into our dented pan. The sizzle and sweet smell filled the kitchen, covering the lingering scent of Owen's desperation and my own fear.
My mind drifted to the emergency money hidden in the tampon box under the sink—$1,412 in emergency funds, everything I had to my name.
Not enough for anything but another week of barely scraping by. No matter how much it added up, it never equaled enough.
Leo returned with clean hands and a shining face, climbing onto his chair with the focused determination of someone scaling Mount Everest.
I slid a plate in front of him, watching him arrange the chocolate chips into a smiley face before devouring the first pancake in three bites.
"Are you working today?" he asked between mouthfuls, syrup already decorating his chin.
"Just a few hours," I answered, wiping his chin. "You can draw while I'm busy. Maybe later we can go to the park?"
His grin could have powered the building. "The one with the big slide?”
"The one with the jungle gym.”
His face lit up. It was in a better part of town and an hour bus ride away, but it was the least he deserved.
If the world didn’t end before dinner .