"Get the hell out of my apartment!" Gerry steps inside, smirking, and the older man follows. He looks like some kind of nasty druid, with a dirty beard down to his chest and purple lips, a hook of a nose and ratty gray hair. He's wearing jeans and a jean jacket, and he smells of sour sweat and wet earth. "Thought we'd forget about you, hey?" Gerry picks up one of my romance books, then sniggers and tosses it aside. Looks around my place derisively, then turns back to me. "Thought we'd just let you go?" "I said, get out." I try to make my voice as hard and firm as possible. Gerry glances at his dad, who shakes his head. "We ain't going anywhere without our fifty thousand. You got it?" Oh, crap. "Not yet. But almost. Tomorrow." Harold – it has to be Harold – stares shrewdly at me. Examines me with a piercing eye, and then shakes his head. "You're lying." "Lying?" My voice comes out a little too high. "I'm not. I just had dinner with Mr. Whitman. We're finalizing our financial arrangement." Harold shakes his head.
