The Riot

"New Apartment," I said, the words echoing slightly in the cramped, third-floor walk-up in Little Five Points. It was a far cry from The Enclave. No open-concept floor plan, no smart-tech, and the only thing "curated" about it was the peeling wallpaper that looked like it had been there since the Carter administration.

But it was safe. It was mine.

I set the last box down on the floor—a cardboard cube labeled *Fragile* that contained nothing but Leo's toys and the few pieces of attic junk I hadn't sold. My hands were shaking, a low-frequency tremor that hadn't stopped since the fire.

"Mama?" Leo pulled on my jeans. He was holding a toy car—a cheap, plastic thing I’d bought at a gas station on the way out of Buckhead.

"I'm here, baby," I said, scooping him up. He smelled of milk and real sweat, a sensory anchor in a world that still felt like it was rendering.

I walked to the window. The view wasn't a manicured cul-de-sac. It was a busy street, filled with people who looked tired and messy and gloriously unmanaged. A bus hissed to a stop. A couple argued on the corner. A dog barked at a squirrel.

It was real.

But I still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

I looked at the window frame. It was old wood, painted over a dozen times, the layers chipping away to reveal the history beneath. I ran my finger along the sill. It came away dusty.

Real dust. Not the simulated, hypoallergenic dust of a smart-home.

I walked to the kitchen counter where my new laptop sat. I had bought it with cash at a pawn shop, along with a prepaid hotspot. No Wi-Fi. No connections to the grid.

I opened the lid. The screen flared to life, the blue light harsh in the dim apartment.

I had one last thing to do.

I plugged in the USB drive—the backup I had made of Maya's phone, just in case the original "disappeared" from evidence. I opened the file.

The video of Maya's confession played. Her terrified face, her voice trembling.

*...Gary knows. He bribed the inspector...*

I paused it. I looked at the timestamp.

*October 22nd.*

The date she died.

I thought about Elowen. About the asylum where she was now a resident, staring at white walls and dreaming of fire. I thought about Gary, rotting in a cell, waiting for a trial that would likely end in a plea deal.

They were gone. The threat was neutralized.

But the question remained.

Who had sent the text?

*Run, Thea. The back gate is open.*

It wasn't Marcus. He was too busy saving his own skin. It wasn't Jordana. She was with the police.

And it wasn't Elowen. She was too busy losing her mind.

So who was *El_Elevates*?

I minimized the video and opened a browser window. I typed in the URL for the Zillow listing of 104 Hydrangea Lane.

The page loaded.

*Status: Off Market.*

*Last Sold: Yesterday.*

*Price: $1,200,000.*

*Buyer: Vance Capital.*

My heart skipped a beat. Vance Capital. Elowen's shell company.

But Elowen was in custody. Her assets were frozen. Who was running the company?

I scrolled down to the agent info.

*Listing Agent: Unknown.*

I clicked on the agent's profile. It was blank. No photo. No bio. Just a single, verified sale.

*104 Hydrangea Lane.*

I closed the laptop. I didn't want to know. I couldn't know.

I picked up the roll of black electrical tape I had bought at the hardware store. I tore off a strip and placed it over the webcam. Just in case.

Then I walked to the front door.

I looked at the lock. It was a standard deadbolt, flimsy and old.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the Schlage B60 I had bought but never installed at the old house. The heavy, Grade 1 security lock.

I got my drill.

For the next hour, the only sound in the apartment was the whine of the drill and the crunch of wood. I replaced the screws. I reinforced the strike plate. I made the door a fortress.

When I was done, I locked it.

*Click.*

The sound was heavy. Final.

I picked up Leo and walked to the bedroom. I put him in his crib—a travel cot I had set up in the corner. He fell asleep instantly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt too perfect, too steady.

I sat in the rocking chair—a cheap, wooden one I had found on the curb—and watched him.

I thought about the future. About raising him alone. About the fear that would always be a background process in my mind.

But then I looked at his face. He looked peaceful. Safe.

He was mine. And no one was going to take him.

My phone buzzed on the floor.

I flinched.

It was the new phone. The burner. Only Jordana had the number.

I picked it up.

A text from an unknown number.

*Nice lock, Thea.*

My blood ran cold.

I looked at the door. The deadbolt was engaged. The chain was on.

I looked at the window. Locked.

I looked at the phone again.

A second text appeared.

*But you missed the vent in the bedroom.*

I froze.

I looked up at the ceiling.

There was a vent. An old, rusted HVAC grate, painted over so many times it looked like part of the wall.

But one of the screws was shiny. New.

And behind the grate, in the darkness of the duct, something glinted.

A lens.

I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I wasn't safe. I was never safe.

I grabbed Leo from the crib. He stirred but didn't wake.

I ran to the door. I unlocked the deadbolt. I threw the chain.

I burst out into the hallway.

And ran straight into a man.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. He was wearing a fresh linen shirt.

He caught me by the arms, steadying me.

"Whoa there," he said, his voice smooth, buttery. "Where's the fire?"

I looked up at his face.

It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't Gary.

It was the man from the photo in the envelope. The man who looked like the regional VP of Sentinel Security.

He smiled. It was a terrifying, empty smile.

"You must be Thea," he said. "I'm the new landlord."

He looked at Leo.

"And this must be the new tenant."

He reached out a hand to touch Leo's cheek.

I pulled back.

"Don't touch him," I whispered.

"Relax," he said. "I'm just here to help. To make sure you're comfortable."

He pulled a phone from his pocket.

"I saw you were having some trouble with the Wi-Fi," he said. "Don't worry. I upgraded the system."

He tapped the screen.

In my apartment, the lights flickered.

The TV turned on.

The screen was static for a moment. Then it cleared.

It showed a live feed.

Of me. Standing in the hallway. Holding Leo.

From the perspective of the camera in the vent.

"Welcome home, Thea," the man said.

He held up a key.

A shiny, brass key.

"I think this belongs to you."

He dropped it into my hand.

It wasn't the key to the apartment.

It was the key to 104 Hydrangea Lane.

"We kept your room ready," he whispered.

"The open house isn't over yet."