I watched a married woman sell the last thing she owned so her little boy could breathe that night. Ten minutes later 

The landlord’s jaw dropped open, yet no words followed.

That was often the reaction when men like him realized I was near enough to catch every sentence.
Chicago was full of predators. Some dressed in custom suits and expensive watches. Some carried authority badges. Others made a living squeezing rent from people who had no strength left to fight and called it legitimate business.

I had been called far worse than any of them.

But standing there in the pouring rain, three inhalers gripped in one hand and Emily Carter’s shattered iPhone in the other, my reputation was the last thing on my mind.