Emily's POV
The coffee machine hissed like an angry snake, and the sound drilled straight into Emily's tired brain. Her fingers, red and raw from constant washing, fumbled with the steam wand as she tried to make her fifth caramel latte of the hour. The milk bubbled over, scorching on the hot metal. She cursed under her breath, wiping the mess quickly before Linda, her manager, could see.
"Order up!" the cook yelled from the kitchen window, slamming a plate of avocado toast down with a crack.
Emily's head throbbed. She'd been on her feet for eleven hours straight. The morning shift at the diner had been brutal, a group of rowdy college kids who left a dollar tip on a fifty-dollar check. Now at Bean There, the hipster café where she worked nights, her body was screaming at her to stop. Her lower back ached like someone had driven a nail into it. Her feet were swollen lumps in her cheap, non-slip shoes.
She delivered the toast to a woman who didn't even look up from her phone, then went back to the counter. The clock above the espresso machine said 8:47 PM. Two more hours. Just two more hours, and she could go home, soak her feet, and sleep for maybe five hours before she had to do it all again tomorrow.
That's when her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.
A jolt of pure fear, cold and sharp, shot through her tiredness. It was like being doused in ice water. No one good called her this late. Her friends had stopped calling months ago, when she'd had to cancel every plan to work or visit the hospital. The only calls she got after sunset were about her mom… or about him.
She pulled the phone out, hiding it below the counter as she pretended to wipe down the syrup bottles. The screen glowed, lighting up her tired face in the dark space under the counter.
GRINDER.
The name was just a name in her contacts, but seeing it felt like a punch to the gut. Her mouth went dry. She answered, turning her back to the mostly empty café.
"Hello?" Her voice was a thin whisper.
"Emily, sweetheart." The voice on the other end was all wrong. It was smooth, like old whiskey, but underneath it was the grind of gravel. It was Grinder. "How's my favorite customer?"
"I'm… I'm working," she said, her eyes darting around. Linda was in the back office doing paperwork. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "I want what's mine. It's Tuesday, Emily. The end of the week is coming. My money. Where is it?"
The knot in her stomach tightened. "I have three hundred. I got paid today. I can bring it to you tomorrow."
"Three hundred dollars?" The fake kindness vanished from his voice, replaced by a flat, cold tone. "You owe me five thousand, girl. Not three hundred. Five thousand. The interest is a living thing. It's growing while we speak. You think you can feed it three hundred-dollar crumbs?"
Six months ago, the word "interest" meant nothing to her. Then her mom got the diagnosis. Stage three. The insurance company called it "experimental." The medicine that could help wasn't covered. Emily had waited tables, saved every penny, but it was a drop in an ocean. A girl she worked with said her cousin knew a guy. A guy who could help, no questions asked. Grinder. The money had appeared. The medicine had been bought. Her mom had gotten a little better, a little brighter.
Now the debt was a monster, and it was hungrier than the cancer.
"Please," Emily whispered, her free hand gripping the edge of the sticky counter so hard her knuckles turned white. "Just a little more time. My mom… she needs a new treatment. It's more money. I'm trying."
"Trying isn't paying," Grinder said, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet. "Friday. Five grand. Cash. In my hand. Do you understand? No more extensions. No more sad stories about your mommy."
A hot tear of shame and rage escaped her eye. She scrubbed it away angrily. "And if I don't?"
The pause on the other end was the scariest thing she'd ever heard.
"Then things get unpleasant," he said slowly, savoring the word. "You understand 'unpleasant,' don't you, Emily? You have a nice routine. Work, hospital, home. Such a predictable little life. It would be a shame if something… interrupted it. Friday."
The line went dead.
Emily stood there, the phone pressed to her ear, listening to the silence. The sounds of the café, the soft jazz music, the clink of a spoon came rushing back as if someone had turned the volume up. She felt dizzy. She put the phone down on the counter and gripped the edge with both hands, lowering her head, trying to breathe.
Five thousand dollars. In three days. It was an impossible number. She could work a hundred double shifts and not make that. She could sell everything she owned, her crappy TV, her mom's old jewelry that wasn't worth anything, and maybe get five hundred.
"Emily? You okay?"
She snapped her head up. Linda was leaning out of the office door, her face wrinkled with concern. Linda was tough but not unkind. She knew about Emily's mom.
"Yeah," Emily croaked, forcing a smile that felt like it would crack her face. "Yeah, just… tired. Long day."
Linda didn't look convinced but just nodded. "Well, clock out when you're ready. I can handle the last hour."
Normally, Emily would never leave early. Every minute was money. But tonight, she just nodded. "Thanks, Linda."
She gathered her things, her tattered backpack, her thin jacket, and her numb hands. The walk home was only three blocks, but tonight it felt like a mile through a dark forest. Every shadow between the buildings seemed deeper. Every parked car looked like it had someone sitting inside. Her heart wouldn't slow down.
She thought about the medicine Dr. Evans had mentioned. Twelve thousand dollars. She thought about Grinder's voice. Unpleasant.
She reached her building, a tired brick thing with a perpetually broken lobby light. She was fumbling for her keys when she saw it.
A car.
It was across the street, parked under a streetlight that flickered. A big, black SUV with windows so dark they looked like sheets of polished obsidian. She'd never seen it on this street before. People here didn't drive cars like that.
A cold trickle of fear ran down her spine. No. It's Tuesday. He said on Friday.
She forced herself to look away, to unlock the main door. Her hands were shaking so badly that the key scratched the metal around the lock. She got it open, slipped inside, and immediately closed the heavy door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood.
It's just a car. Someone visiting. Don't panic.
But her body was in full panic mode. She took the stairs quickly, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. On the third-floor landing, she paused, listening. Nothing but the hum of the old refrigerator in someone's apartment.
Inside her own apartment, she didn't turn on the big light. She threw all three locks: the cheap knob lock, the slightly better deadbolt, and the chain her dad had put on years ago that she used to think was silly. Now it was her favorite sound: the solid rattle-thunk of the chain sliding into place.
She dropped her backpack and went to the window. She carefully peeled back the edge of the blind, just enough to see out.
The black SUV was still there.
A streetlight gleamed off its roof. It just sat there, silent and massive. No interior light. No movement. Was someone inside? Were they watching her window right now?
Minutes ticked by. Her legs began to ache from standing so still. The car didn't move.
Finally, exhaustion won. She was being paranoid. It was just a car. She let the blind fall back, shutting out the sight. The dim light from her one working lamp seemed safer, smaller. She couldn't stand there all night. She had to sleep.
She was turning away, heading toward her tiny bathroom to wash the smell of coffee off her face, when she heard it.
A low, powerful vibration. A deep, guttural purr.
The sound of a big engine turning over.
It came from right outside her window.
She froze, one foot still in the air.
The engine idled, that deep purr humming through her apartment walls. It wasn't driving away. It was just… running.
Who sits in a car with the engine running? Her mind screamed. Someone who is about to move. Someone who is waiting for a signal.
She didn't breathe. She just stared at the blind, as if she could see through it.
Then, the sound changed. The idle smoothed out. She heard the soft crunch of tires on gravel as the car pulled away from the curb.
She waited until the sound had completely faded into the distant city noise. Then, moving like she was a hundred years old, she crept back to the window and peeked through the slit again.
The street was empty.
The black SUV was gone.
But the fear it left behind filled her dark apartment, colder and heavier than ever.