“I need the work, Marcus.”
“I know you do. But this woman—Eleanor Whitmore—she’s cold as ice and twice as sharp. You sure you want to deal with that?”
Caleb looked around his apartment: clean but small, practical furniture from the thrift store. A photo of his eight-year-old daughter, Zoe, sat on the coffee table. She was spending the summer with her mom in Atlanta, and he missed her every day.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”
The next afternoon, Caleb drove his old Honda to the address Marcus had given him.
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