Oh God, that was all she had?
French Quarter rent wasn’t cheap and had been sucking her dry, but she’d chosen this apartment because it was furnished and within walking distance to work, which meant she hadn’t needed to swindle her way into furniture or a car. But if she went to Houston or Austin, she’d need a vehicle. Texas cities were so spread out it was impossible to not own a car, and she definitely didn’t have the money for that. Two thousand would get her to a new city and maybe set her up in a new apartment—if she didn’t buy a new identity. If she did, it wouldn’t leave her enough for rent.
Her heart sank straight to the floor.
She didn’t have enough cash to leave.
Sage leaned back against the wall, drew her legs up, and rested her elbows on her knees, her fingers speared through her short hair. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay here, but if she left, she’d have to live on the streets, and she so didn’t want to go back to that hell.
Her gaze caught on the built-in desk, where she’d set a stack of mail earlier in the day. It was mostly junk because she didn’t have friends or relatives, and she never ordered anything online. All she ever got in the mail was flyers, coupons, take-out menus…and credit card offers.
That was it. She scrambled to her feet and crossed the room in two long strides. Grabbed the stack of envelopes, flipped through until she found the offers from Visa and MasterCard. The real Sage Evans had had an excellent credit score before she died. If she applied, she’d probably get a high credit limit, which she could borrow cash against and—
No. She set the envelopes down. She refused to commit credit card fraud. So far, she’d managed to avoid adding that to her already long list of crimes. Yeah, so it paled in comparison to other things she’d done, but it was a line she’d set for herself on day one, and she was not going to cross it. Just like how she only took identities from the dead. She wasn’t in this to screw over a stranger. She just wanted to survive.
Okay, calm down. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Marcus and his Cajun friend were just two guys looking for some fun on Bourbon Street. Maybe—
Yeah, right. She knew better. All of her alarm bells were clanging. She had to get gone.
But dammit, she was on the schedule to dance at Elixir this weekend, which would bring in anywhere from two to three thousand dollars in tips. Holding off until after Mardi Gras was a risk, but if she was going to run again, she needed that money. And if she wasn’t willing to go the credit card route, what other choice did she have?
So she’d stay just for the weekend. She’d have to be extra careful, and if she caught even the faintest whiff of danger, then she was gone, money or no. And then… well, she’d figure it out, land on her feet. She always did.
Sighing, she gathered up her cash but decided against returning it to the lock box. If things went south on her, it’d happen fast, and she might not have the time to return home for the money. From now on, she’d have to keep it and her go bag easily accessible.
God, she was so tired of running.
“Better than the alternative,” she reminded herself as she packed the cash into a plastic baggie, then slid it into an inside pocket of her duffle. “And this is a pity-party free zone.”
Her life was what it was. Her decisions had made it this way. She just had to get over it and deal.
Her stomach growled. She set the bag down next to her bed and looked toward the galley-style kitchen, but she couldn’t work up enough energy to make dinner—if there was anything in the kitchen to make. She never went grocery shopping in the traditional sense, never filled up her cart with the standard fresh produce and meat and dairy. It was usually a few canned goods and boxes of pasta, stuff she could pack if she needed to, because she hated the thought of leaving food behind to spoil when she had to run again.
And she always had to run again.
Sage flopped onto her bed and scrubbed her hands over her face, then just lay there and watched familiar shadows play across the ceiling.
Or…no, not familiar. Not familiar at all.
Heart kicking, she stared up at the two large shadows that didn’t belong. Two large, man-shaped shadows, moving around near her front door. The soft click of her lock unlatching had her bolting upright in an instant.
Someone was breaking into her apartment.
It hadn’t been paranoia.
And why, oh why hadn’t she invested in a fucking deadbolt?