“Hello? Ms. Martin?” a voice, a man’s voice, called through the door. Gah! It probably was Daire. I felt my entire body cramp. If I was capable of moving, I would have smacked my forehead with an open palm, but I didn’t want to make a sound.

Despite my curiosity about my landlord, which was like an itch I couldn’t reach to scratch, this was not how I wanted to meet him. We needed neutral ground or something.

There was movement behind the glass doors, and a bald, bearded man peered at me through the narrow window on the side of the double doors. He blinked. I didn’t move. Would he think I was a piece of furniture? A delightfully random sculpture, perhaps?

His gaze held mine, and he waved one big beefy hand. I realized he could see me quite clearly in my awkward frozen crouch, and I likely looked like an idiot. I waved back and then pretended to tie my shoe, yeah, because that was going to fool him. My heart was beating hard in my chest and I felt suddenly sweaty.

I rose and crossed the room to the doors. Steeling myself with a big breath, I unlocked the doors and pulled open the one on the right. “Hello,” I said. I made my voice cheery and, I hoped, innocent sounding. Just me eating a bowl of ramen, nothing to see here.

“Hi, I’m Jackson Popov,” he said. So he was not Mr. Daire. My spine relaxed and I drew a relieved breath.

“Annabelle Martin.” I pointed to myself.

“I know. I work for Mr. Daire. He asked me to bring you this.”

He held out an envelope. I didn’t take it. His eyes went wide as if he didn’t know what to do with my nonparticipation. But really, why would I want to take what was likely an eviction notice? I felt like I was being served legal papers, and I wanted no part of them. He flapped the envelope at me. I kept my hands at my sides.

He pursed his lips and squinted one eye as if he was unclear on what to make of me, and it gave me a chance to study him. I guessed him to be in his early to mid-thirties, despite the bald head, which looked shaved rather than the result of hair loss. He was built huge in height and width; the T-shirt he wore strained to cover the muscles that rippled beneath his skin with every move he made—even in his neck. Impressive and fascinating.

I wondered what he did for Mr. Daire. Bodyguard? Personal trainer? Enforcer? The last one made me pause, but his friendly face didn’t seem like the type to crack skulls for a living. Still, the possibilities were endless.

“Is he throwing me out?” I asked.