Page 16 of Hate Notes

The annoyingly accurate self-reflection didn’t help my growing headache. Worse, I hardly ever suffered from headaches—at least, I hadn’t before the damn woman in red entered my life. I was allergic to her and the bullshit she put me through each and every morning, from her made-up personalized notes she read from blank cards to the way she had begun using voices and delivering hate notes to me like she was auditioning for a role on Broadway.

I pulled my focus to the table, dimly aware that I hadn't even been listening to the chatter of my employees thus far.

"Alright," I said softly as I studied the map Roman had laid out on the table. He was to my right, while Julian and Moira sat to my left. "I see the old industrial park here is highlighted in green. Tell me more." I said.

"I've uncovered some information about these lots. Information that leads me to believe there may be an opportunity for Foster Real Estate to acquire all three."

That was enough to spike my heart rate. I didn't let my excitement show, but I lifted my eyes to meet his. "You're certain?"

Roman threaded his fingers and leaned forward, brow cocked dramatically. "Do old people love Bingo?"

"What?" Julian asked. "We were just talking about real estate. What do old people have to do with anything?"

"I'm trying to make a—" Roman began.

"And," Julian continued. "You really shouldn't call them 'old people.' That's so insensitive, man. Call them like... generously seasoned individuals." Julian spread his hands as if he wasvisualizing this in bright letters on a billboard somewhere. "Or maybe chronologically over-qualified? No... that's not good. Geriatric gladiators? Hmm. I'll workshop it with the team later."

"Anyway," Roman said with a sigh. "It's a saying.”

"That's a stupid saying," Moira said. Moira was twenty-eight, tall and imposing with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cut in a severe bob that matched her personality. Her entire wardrobe was made from shades of black and gray with the occasional touch of purple if she was feeling festive, and she wore the kind of stilettos that could double as weapons. The overall effect made her look like she'd be equally comfortable in a boardroom or a vampire coven.

Despite her dry, often grim sense of humor, I had to admit I appreciated her blunt approach. She was head of client relations, which was mostly an organizational role focused on assigning the right agents to communicate with clients. "Just like 'Roman makes milk curdle' isn't a saying."

Roman folded his arms and cocked his head in amusement. "Aww, upset that I never invite you out, Moira? All you have to do is ask. I could look online to see if there are any bars that allow vampires and ghouls before we get there. I'd hate for you to get turned away at the door."

"Cute," Moira said.

"You know," Julian tapped his chin as he frowned in thought. "I think Roman might be on to something. My grandma loves Bingo, and so does her best friend. That’s two out of three geriatric gladiators I know who love Bingo.Suspicious." Even though Julian was by all accounts a marketing genius, he was honestly an airhead in most other areas of life and business. Helooked the part too—tall and naturally athletic with thick blonde hair that fell to his chin, perpetually rumpled designer clothes, and the easy, white-toothed smiles of somebody who grew up surfing. The type who'd definitely been in a frat and still had the photos to prove it.

One of Julian’s hidden talents was diffusing tension between Roman and Moira, who often looked like they wanted to kill one another. In other words, Julian was currently present at this meeting because I knew he’d distract Roman and Moira from fighting too much.

"Let's focus on the task at hand," I said, my voice low but serious.

Roman, Julian, and Moira all straightened in their seats, eyes on me.

"You said we could acquire all these lots, Roman?" I asked, touching my fingertip to the map. "If you're right, this move would nearly double our footprint in Manhattan. Each of these lots is absolutely massive. We could fit two or three skyscrapers in this space... We would be in the green for years with projects like that."

"Possibly," Roman said carefully. "See, these lots currently house old factories that aren’t in use. A shoe factory, a leather factory, and a rubber factory, to be exact. The guy who owned them was named Marcellus Davenport. He was really hands-on and made millions during his life running these places. But he's old now."

"Generously seasoned?" Julian suggested.

Roman glared but continued. "Anyway, he's so generously seasoned that he is going to die soon, and he knows it. But the guy has no heirs. No family. If he died tomorrow, the land wouldpass to the city, which would probably use it for some public bullshit."

Julian shook his head in disapproval. "Civics aren't bullshit, man. Did you ride bullshit to the office today? Do you call bullshit for help when your house is on fire?"

"I paid my driver to bring me to work today," Roman said. "And my house has never been on fire."

"To our collective disappointment," Moira added.

"So he dies," I cut in. "And the land goes to the city. I'm assuming there's an 'unless' here."

"There is," Roman said. "I found a little legal loophole... If we play our cards right, we could become the default inheritors of those lots. All we would need to do is wait for this guy to croak and?—"

"Croak?" Julian said, throwing up his hands. "We wait for him to transition from life to death gently. Kick his last can. Leave his meat sack behind."

"Those are all terrible," Moira said.

"What is the loophole?" I asked.

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