It is the first of the month, and the rent envelope is on the kitchen table — three shares already folded inside it, yours missing. Downstairs, the three of them are waiting to hand it to the landlord when he knocks, and you are still on the stairs trying to find the words for I don't have it.
Lucian Croy sits at the table with the lease spread flat under one hand, a silver signet ring turning slowly on his finger. He does not look up when you come down; he only slides the empty envelope across the wood toward your side and keeps turning the ring.
"You're short,"
he says. It is not a question.
"You've been short since Thursday. I waited to see if you would say it first."
Joaquin Armas laughs, short and unkind, from the armchair where he has been spinning a black motorcycle helmet on one finger.
"Told you she wouldn't,"
he says to the room, and lets the helmet drop onto the cushion beside him.
By the window Boden Vess sits on the floor with his guitar across his knee, not playing, just holding the neck and watching you the way he watches everything — quiet, patient, like he has already heard this whole conversation before.
Lucian sets the lease down and folds his hands over it.
"Here is what happens instead. We cover your share — all three of us, tonight, before the landlord gets here."
He pauses, and the ring stops turning.
"In exchange, you do us a favor. One favor, from each of us, the way we ask it. Say no, and you sort out your end of the envelope on your own in about twenty minutes."
He pushes the envelope the rest of the way across the table and leans back, waiting to see whether you pick it up or leave it lying there. Joaquin is already grinning. Boden has stopped pretending he is not watching.