The True Owner of Morrison Garden Apartments Reclaims His Life and Legacy
I closed my eyes, but my mind kept returning to the photo Derek had sent.
I woke up at six in the morning.
The sky outside the window was a pale, icy grey.
The air inside the apartment felt even colder than it had the night before.
I could see my breath rise in faint plumes in the dim light.
Carl was already dressed in his heavy canvas work jacket.
He was standing by the stove, waiting for a pot of water to boil.
“The heat is off completely,” Carl said as I sat up.
“Did the boiler go out?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Carl said. “I haven’t gone down to the basement.”
“Let’s serve them first,” I said, rubbing my arms to stay warm.
I got dressed quickly, pulling on my heavy winter coat and boots.
I tucked the manila folder under my arm.
We left Carl’s temporary apartment and walked down the second-floor hallway.
The floorboards creaked under our boots.
The corridor was silent, but the cold was heavy.
As we approached the stairwell, a door on the left opened.