He rolled his head to look out the side window. A woman in the minivan beside him painted her nails while speaking on her phone.
Movement on the other side of the minivan caught his eye. He sat straighter and hit the button, lowering the window. Two lanes over, traffic moved smoothly. He ground his teeth together.
He looked behind him and nosed the front of the car into the next lane, cutting off the woman. She never even noticed because she was busy blowing on her nails.
He stared straight ahead, blinded by all the red taillights, and cranked the wheel, working his way into the next lane on the one-way street. Adrenaline fueled him forward. He hit the horn and motioned for traffic to back up. Several minutes later, he'd created a break and drove the BMW over to the far-right lane.
It would've been a good day to ride his motorcycle. Traffic was a bitch.
He pressed the accelerator. Glancing at the dashboard, he had less than three minutes to get to the shelter before the doors locked.
Parking half a block away, he checked the meter and jogged up the block, glad he'd changed his clothes before leaving the office. Hoping to find others standing on the sidewalk, waiting their turn to enter the building, he turned the corner, and disappointment filled him. There wasn't even one person waiting to get in. He stopped in front of the door and tried the handle. It was locked.
He looked up at the building for a way inside. The only windows were too high up to scale the side of the building. No fire escapes. No balconies. Last night when inspecting the shelter, he'd learned there were two fire exits and a locked back door. The only way in was through the front door.
He had walked in with the others on Monday, keeping his head down. No one noticed him. The homeless knew him. They allowed him to walk amongst them. He'd stayed hidden until he noticed Aubrey trying to gain everyone's attention with her soft voice.
Barely five feet five inches and a hundred and twenty-five pounds, she was swallowed by the crowd seeking refuge. The two men working with her were overwhelmed by the crowd and the water problem they seemed to have that night. They couldn't protect her if the others became violent—and they would get violent.
That's why he felt at home among the homeless. Even more so than when he was behind the desk, securing a million-dollar deal.
No matter how much higher he climbed in life, he would always be Ghost from The Point, craving the violence to feel alive—trying to feel past the pain.
When he noticed the others ignoring the woman's pleas while she stood on the bleachers, he should have left. Instead, he created a distraction, allowing her a chance to speak.
Something compelled him to return after triggering the alarm. He needed to discover her name. Once he got home, he gained more information on Aubrey with a simple background check.
At twenty-four years old, she was too young and inexperienced to believe she could help the homeless. She barely had enough money to keep the shelter open. While she could take a cut from the donations she brought in, there wasn't any incentive for others to volunteer their time. She ran a money pit for no other reason than pitying those beneath her
Any small expense would close the doors.
He jiggled the door handle again. If he were smart, he'd walk away. He could cruise into the encampment and ask around about Alain.
But there was something in Aubrey's face when she caught him in the office that made him come back—not for his usual reasons, but because he liked seeing that fear on her face when he'd backed her up against the wall.
A rattle grew louder. He turned from the door, looking along the sidewalk. Santana headed toward him, pushing his old, rickety shopping cart holding all his belongings.
The old man looked up at the sky and then met his eyes. "It's a little early for you to be out, Ghost."
Surprised the man was sober, he took out his wallet. "Can you get me inside the shelter?"
Santana waved off the offer of money. "It's locked up tight after eight o'clock. They open the doors at six in the morning to let everyone out. I'm heading down to the train station."
The homeless had a tent city on the other side of the tracks. Most people in the area preferred to stay there, where the rules were well known, rather than in any of the shelters where their freedom was restricted.
Santana pushed his cart past him. Knowing he couldn't get inside, he leaned against the building. There was nothing for him to do, but he couldn't make himself leave.
Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon. He pushed off the side of the building and lifted his hood up. Keeping his head down, he walked toward his car.
Just another shadow passing through the night.
