The first black sport utility vehicle entered the narrow street slowly, its polished surface reflecting sunlight off cracked pavement and aging brick walls that had not been painted in decades. A second vehicle followed, then a third, and the sound of engines alone was enough to make people pause mid sentence and look twice. In that part of East Cleveland, expensive cars never arrived without a reason, and reasons usually meant trouble or authority.
Felicity Brown stood frozen inside her tiny studio apartment, her fingers still holding the edge of a thin fabric curtain that served as both a door and a boundary between her private life and the shared hallway outside. The air inside smelled of fried peppers and rice, remnants of the simple meal she had eaten moments earlier after returning from a double shift. Her black and white diner uniform clung to her skin, heavy with sweat and exhaustion, while her feet throbbed with the familiar pain that came from standing too long for too little pay.
Outside, voices rose in confusion and curiosity.
“Who came?” someone asked loudly.
“Did the police bring bad news?” another voice followed.