Chapter 2
The eviction notice arrived on a Thursday.
Not a warning. Not a gentle letter from the building management asking us to discuss a payment plan. A formal notice, the kind with specific legal language and a timeline, taped to the door at eye level so we would see it immediately.
Petra found it first. She held it out when I came home from a double shift still in my work clothes, and her face had the expression of someone who has used up all their elasticity on a problem and arrived at a place past surprise.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Bad enough,” she said.
We sat at the kitchen table with the notice between us and went through the arithmetic we had already gone through three times that month. Numbers that did not resolve regardless of how we arranged them.
At midnight, after Petra had gone to bed, I took Declan’s card from my coat pocket.
The card was cream-colored, heavy stock. His name embossed, not printed. An email address.
I opened my laptop.
The fan started its familiar complaint.
I typed: *Send the contract.*
His reply arrived eleven minutes later.
*You’ll have it by morning.*
No enthusiasm. No relief. Just confirmation.
The contract arrived via a law firm I did not recognize. By afternoon, a separate attorney — one specifically retained for me, demonstrably unconnected to Declan’s firm — had called to walk me through it.
“This is unusual,” she said.
“That seems to be his default.”
“It is also, structurally, very clean. He receives nothing from the work. You’re required to complete a manuscript draft within ninety days and meet with him weekly. There’s a confidentiality clause regarding the meetings.”
“What kind?”
“Don’t publicly discuss his involvement. Don’t sell the details. Don’t share specifics of your conversations.” She paused. “You’ll be fine if you’re not planning to monetize the association.”
“I’m planning to write a novel.”
“Then sign it.”
I signed.
The first payment arrived within the hour.
I quit the café with shaking hands the next morning.
The eviction notice was resolved by end of day.
Petra stood in the kitchen looking at me with an expression I recognized as gratitude wrapped in worry.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“I don’t entirely know yet.”
“Should you know before taking his money?”
“Probably.”
She thought about this.
“Send me your location,” she said. “Every week. Every meeting.”
“I will.”
“And if something feels wrong—”
“I’ll leave.”
May you like
She nodded. Then, more quietly: “Go write your book, Wren.”
—
