Chapter 45

Clay shuffled down Bleecker Street in his Grandmother Gladys persona, the seventy-three-year-old black woman’s form hunched with practiced fragility. The faded floral housedress and worn leather purse completed the image of vulnerability he’d perfected over two years of working this territory.

Hatter’s Productions needed new inventory. Young and female—that’s all that mattered. Clay was heading to Washington Park, his usual hunting ground where the street kids congregated after dark. Runaways, throwaways, girls with nowhere else to go and no one who would miss them.

The three figures who stepped from the shadows were an unwelcome interruption. Street-level predators blocking his path to the park—the tall one with dead eyes, his scarred companion, and the pale, twitchy weasel whose gaze crawled over Clay’s elderly disguise.

“Well, lookee here,” the tall one said. “Granny’s out past her bedtime.”

Clay felt irritation flare beneath his artificial flesh. He had work to do.

The weaselly one circled closer, licking his lips. “You know what’s amazing about old ladies? When you promise them you’ll let them live, how good they try to make it for you. Last one I had, God, I didn’t know whether to keep her or what. She made me come three times before I got rid of her.”

“Jesus, Tommy, you’re one sick fuck,” the third thug laughed. “But that’s why you like ‘em old, right? They know how to please a man.”

“Damn right,” the weasel grinned, reaching toward Clay’s dress. “These old bitches know how to use their asses right when motivated.”

These idiots were wasting his time. Clay needed to get to the park.

The moment the weasel’s fingers touched him, Clay’s hands morphed into razor-sharp blades. He drove them through Tommy’s chest in one efficient thrust. The other two barely had time to react before Clay’s weapons found their throats and spines.

All three dropped within seconds.

Clay’s hands flowed back into the wrinkled, spotted appearance of an elderly woman’s fingers. He resumed his shuffle toward Washington Park, already focused on his real work.

Time to make that money.

Selina pulled the threadbare hoodie tighter around her shoulders as she approached the cluster of girls near the playground equipment. Washington Park after dark was a different world—the daytime families and joggers replaced by teenagers with nowhere else to go. The broken streetlight cast uneven shadows across the cracked asphalt, and the air smelled like urine and desperation.

She’d spent an hour getting the look right: old jeans with real holes in the knees, sneakers held together with duct tape, and a backpack that looked like it had seen better years. The blanket poking out of the top was intentionally visible, along with a water bottle and a bag of chips—the kind of possessions that screamed homeless but trying to survive.

A few girls glanced her way as she settled on a bench, close enough to seem approachable but far enough to look cautious. Selina let her shoulders hunch slightly, projecting nervousness while trying to appear tough. It was a delicate balance—vulnerable enough to be a target, strong enough to have survived on the streets.

“You’re new.” The voice belonged to a girl maybe sixteen, with short-cropped brown hair and eyes that had seen too much. “Never seen you around here before. Who are you?”

Selina looked up, letting uncertainty flicker across her face. “I’m ... I’m just looking for somewhere safe to stay. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Are there any good spots around here where no one can mess with you?”

The girl studied her for a moment, then sat down on the bench. Two others drifted over—a redhead with track marks on her arms and a younger girl who couldn’t be more than fourteen.

“I’m Kayla,” the brown-haired girl said. “This is Sarah and Jen. What’s your name?”

“Cat,” Selina replied, using the fake name that felt most natural.

“Well, Cat, first rule of survival out here: stay away from the shelters. They’re more dangerous than the streets half the time.” Kayla pointed toward a cluster of trees near the park’s edge. “Those trees are decent if you can get up high enough. Ground level’s asking for trouble. There’s also an old drainage pipe under the bridge on Fifth Street, but it floods when it rains.”