The True Owner of Morrison Garden Apartments Reclaims His Life and Legacy
“A big one,” she said. “Dark windows. He keeps looking up at your windows.”
I let go of the button.
My heart did a quick, heavy thump against my ribs.
I walked to the living room window and pulled back the lace curtain.
The street below was grey under the overcast sky.
Sure enough, a black Lincoln was parked across the street, its engine idling.
A thin wisp of white exhaust curled from the tailpipe.
I couldn’t see the driver through the tinted glass.
Could it be Carl’s lawyer?
Or was it someone from the bank’s fraud department?
I felt a sudden chill.
Behind me, the basement door rattled again.
Carl was pounding on it now with a heavy tool.
“Mallerie!” he shouted. “Open this door right now!”
“Stop that noise, Carl!” I yelled back, walking into the hallway. “You’re going to disturb the tenants.”
“I don’t care about the tenants!” he roared. “You took my father’s money!”
“It’s my money now,” I said, standing right in front of the door. “Our money.”
“I’ll have you arrested,” he said, his voice shaking with rage.