Page 108 of The Last Good Man

“Enough of this,” I mutter, picking up my purse and calling my driver.

I need to take control of my life and reinstate the good rules governing my existence.

Anything that can give me a boost today is welcome, whether it’s a limousine ride, shopping therapy, or having lunch with a friend. Which is hard to accomplish since Alice is out of town and everybody else is working.

I can go back to that website guaranteeing dates with hot millionaires.

Yeah, right.

Hot millionaires are into mail-order brides, not women like me, but it’s a way to keep myself occupied while figuring out my life.

With that thought in mind, I exit my apartment.

My driver is waiting outside as I pivot in that direction when someone’s figure catches the corner of my eye.

I’m so not in the mood for a conversation, especially at seven o’clock in the morning.

I hurry to the entrance, quick steps trailing the marble floors behind me, suggesting I might have no choice but to stop when a loud male voice booms.

“Miss Hill?”

Oh, the landlord.

Pushing a fake smile to my lips, I spin around.

I think I know what this is all about.

This must be about last Friday when the two cop cars were parked outside.

Myron Smith, a gray-haired man in his late seventies, stares at me with beaded eyes, which appear even smaller behind his thick glasses.

He’s short and appears frail in his expensive suite, yet despite his feeble looks, he runs his real estate empire with an iron hand.

A tycoon in the making, he’s renting out several apartments in the building where he and I live––the house he inherited from his parents.

He’s a greedy man obsessed with rules.

“Oh. Hi,” I say, expressionless.

“Do you have a moment?” he says, locking my eyes.

“Not really,” I say in the same dry voice and with the same fake smile. “I’m late for work. Is there a problem?”

A tenant, the man occupying the other apartment on my floor, Marlow––or Marlowe––Jones,I think,punches in the code and enters the building.

We both go quiet and step to the side so he can walk past us.

If I remember correctly, Marlow––or Marlowe––Jones is in his thirties and a trust fund manager.

Frankly, I wasn’t paying attention when Rosalie Smith, the landlord’s wife, who is younger andnicerthan her husband but has very little say in how he runs his business, told me about the new tenant.

I never got to meet him, yet she dutifully showed me a picture of him, like a proud mama eager to find a son-in-law for her daughter.

I’m much younger than her daughter, who is married and has her own family, by the way, but she felt like I needed a little help in the love department.

She also thought he might be a good match.

Now that I see the man in person, I run a curious gaze over him despite having Myron next to me.

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