Perfect.
She bought a struggling corner store.
And for fifteen years, she became exactly what she wanted to become.
Celeste from Ward’s Market.
Nothing more.
The evening before Voss walked into the store, a man named Omar Haddad had warned her.
Omar ran the small pharmacy two doors down.
He was fifty-eight and had owned it for almost nineteen years.
Celeste was locking her front door when he approached.
He looked both directions first.
That alone bothered her.
“Omar?”
He leaned close.
“Your turn is coming.”
Celeste had stopped.
“For what?”
Omar shook his head.
“Not out here.”
“Then come inside.”
“No.”
His eyes moved toward the street.
“Just listen.”
He lowered his voice further.
“When they come, don’t argue.”
“Who?”
Omar stared at her.
Celeste understood before he answered.
“The police?”
He flinched.
“Please.”
“How much?”
His face changed.
“How do you know?”
Celeste did not answer.
Omar swallowed.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How much they think you can pay.”
“What did you pay?”
Omar shook his head.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He left quickly.
Celeste spent most of that night trying to convince herself she had misunderstood him.
Then Voss entered the store the following afternoon.
After Earl Callaway left, Celeste closed early.
That alone caused concern.
Ward’s Market almost never closed before eight.
She taped a handwritten sign to the glass.
FAMILY MATTER. OPEN 6 A.M.
Then she walked two blocks to Quincy Avenue.
Earl’s nephew, Leon Callaway, lived above a barber shop.
His former tire business sat vacant across the street.
The old sign remained.
CALLAWAY TIRE & BRAKE.
Faded.
One letter missing.
Leon answered the apartment door wearing sweatpants and a work shirt from an auto-parts store.
He was fifty-two.
He recognized Celeste immediately.
“Ms. Ward.”
“Can I ask you about the tire shop?”
His expression closed.
“Who sent you?”
“Your uncle mentioned it.”
Leon looked down the hallway.
Then opened the door wider.
Inside, moving boxes lined one wall.
“You moving?”
“My lease is up.”
“Where?”
“Charlotte.”
He offered coffee.
Celeste declined.
They sat at a small kitchen table.
For nearly a minute neither spoke.
Then Celeste said:
“Lieutenant Voss asked me for five thousand dollars.”
Leon closed his eyes.
“You need to pay him.”
“No.”
His eyes opened.
“Then leave town.”
“I’m not doing that either.”
“Ms. Ward.”
“Celeste.”
He leaned forward.
“You don’t understand these people.”
“I’m trying to.”
“No.”
“You’re trying to treat them like crooked cops.”
“They’re worse.”
“Why?”
“Because crooked cops hide.”
“These men don’t.”
Leon rubbed his forehead.
“The first time Voss came to me, it was eight hundred.”
“For what?”
“Protection.”