Revealing My Secret Identities! My Bros Are Speechless!

The driveway was empty. The town car was gone.

Journey stood on the gravel, the sky above threatening rain. The wind whipped her hair across her face.

Higgins came out the side door. He held a large black umbrella and extended it to her.

"Take care of yourself, Miss," he whispered.

Journey took the handle. Her fingers brushed his. "Thank you, Higgins."

It was the first honest thing she had said all day.

She pulled out her phone and opened Uber. She typed in the address from the file. Astoria, Queens.

While she waited, her phone buzzed.

Augustin: Boss, do you need the chopper? Or a extraction team?

Journey typed back with one thumb. No. I'm taking the scenic route.

A black Uber XL pulled up. The driver, a man with a thick neck and zero patience, popped the trunk but didn't get out. Journey heaved the heavy Louis Vuitton trunks into the back herself. A fingernail snapped-her index finger. She looked at the jagged edge, frowned, and slammed the trunk shut.

The car smelled of pine air freshener and stale cigarettes. As they crossed the Triborough Bridge, the city changed. The glass and steel of Manhattan receded, replaced by the low, sprawling brick of Queens.

Graffiti tagged the sides of buildings. Laundromats replaced boutiques.

The car stopped in front of a six-story red brick building. The fire escape on the front was rusted orange. A garbage can near the entrance was overflowing, a pizza box precarious on top.

"This is it," the driver grunted. "Hurry up, I'm blocking the hydrant."

Journey stood on the sidewalk. The noise was immediate-reggaeton blasting from a passing car, a siren wailing in the distance, kids shouting.

She looked up at the building. It looked tired.

A teenager on a skateboard woven past her, missing her toes by an inch. "Watch it, princess," he jeered.

Journey ignored him. She dragged the trunks into the vestibule. The air inside was thick with the smell of fried onions and bleach.

She pressed the elevator button. Nothing happened. She saw the piece of notebook paper taped to the metal doors: OUT OF ORDER.

Journey closed her eyes for a second. Fourth floor.

She kicked off her heels. She picked them up, holding them by the straps in one hand. With the other, she grabbed the handle of the first trunk.

The stairs were narrow and covered in linoleum that was peeling at the corners. By the second floor, her arms were burning. By the third, sweat was trickling down her back, ruining her silk blouse.

A door cracked open on the third floor. An older woman with curlers in her hair peered out. She looked at Journey-barefoot, holding expensive shoes, dragging a trunk worth more than the woman's car.

Journey nodded. "Good afternoon."

The woman slammed the door shut.

Journey reached the fourth floor. She was gasping for air. She stood in front of apartment 4B. The name Cobb was written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the door.

Inside, voices were raised.

"We don't have it, Elara! The rent is due and the medical bills..." A man's voice. Desperate.

"We can sell the truck," a woman sobbed.

Journey froze. Her hand hovered over the wood. This was real. This wasn't a boardroom negotiation. This was survival.

She knocked. Three sharp raps.