Chapter 9 - The Ghost from the Past Returns
The address was a rotting, half-abandoned tenement building tucked behind the railyards in Gary, Indiana—a place where forgotten men went to die of cheap whiskey and bad luck.
Evelyn didn't tell Lorenzo where she was going. She didn't need a syndicate hit squad for this. This was her ghost to lay to rest.
She pulled her black town car up to the curb, stepping out into the cold drizzle of a November evening. Her heels clicked sharply against the cracked pavement as she pushed open the rusted iron gate of the tenement.
Unit 4B smelled of wet wool, stale cigarettes, and desperation.
She kicked the wooden door open. It gave way with a splintering crash.
There, huddled in the corner of a grease-stained mattress, sat Arthur Carter. He looked older, gaunt, his hair stark white, his hands trembling violently as he clutched an empty bottle of gin.
“Evie... oh, thank God...” he whimpered, crawling toward her across the floor. “I saw your picture in the financial papers. I knew my little girl would be rich... help me out, honey. Just a few grand to clear my name with the Syndicate boys in Indiana. They’re going to kill me—”
Evelyn looked down at the man who had traded her childhood for a pair of loaded dice, who had left her with empty cupboards, unpaid electric bills, and a lifetime of running.
“They aren't Syndicate boys, Dad,” Evelyn said, her voice completely devoid of emotion, cold as winter lake water. “They’re freelance collectors. And I’m the one who bought their contract this morning.”
Arthur froze, his rheumy eyes widening in absolute terror as he stared up at his daughter. The expensive designer suit, the cold, dead certainty in her gaze, the absolute power radiating from her presence—he realized in that single, crushing moment that the little girl he had abandoned was now the monster running the city.
“Evie... please... I’m your father...”
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“My father died twelve years ago,” Evelyn said softly. She pulled a gold-plated lighter from her pocket, clicked it open, tossed it onto the grease-stained mattress beside a puddle of spilled gin, and turned on her heel.
As she walked out into the cool rain, the apartment behind her erupted in a satisfying, cleansing roar of orange flame.
