Chapter 3

At two in the morning, the notifications came one after another, loud enough to split my skull.

I opened the city's biggest gossip group chat.

The video Old Mrs. Whitney had cut was already everywhere.

Everything before and after was chopped out. All that was left was that one line of mine. Yes, thirty-seven times.

The caption was dirtier.

【Pink-haired little punk earns her engagement money renting hotel rooms — her own mother confirmed it on the spot!】

The comments below had already passed a thousand.

"I've seen her. She runs the nail salon on the corner."

"Dresses like a slut every single day. One look and you know she's no good."

"Thirty-seven check-ins? What is that if not selling herself?"

"And she wanted to con them out of twenty grand in engagement money. The nerve!"

The video link, the posting account, the reshare records, and the most-liked insults — I screenshotted all of it.

At seven that morning, something happened at Nova's nail salon.

The roll-down shutter was splashed all over with red paint.

The number 37 was scrawled across the wall everywhere.

Two livestreamers with selfie sticks blocked the door, shouting at their cameras until their faces were red.

"Everybody, take a good look!"

"This is the famous thirty-seven-times nail salon!"

"We're camping right here at the door today."

"Let's see what the owner actually looks like!"

"And ask on behalf of all you guys out there — what's the going rate for a room!"

I stood at the corner and didn't go over.

In the family group chat, Aunt Felicity started up again.

【Nadia, look how big this has gotten.】

【Go apologize to the Whitneys right now, give back the engagement money, throw in a little something for their trouble, and let it drop.】

At noon, a courier delivered a package.

Still no sender's name.

I opened it. Inside was nothing but a single printed note.

【Eight tonight, we smash the shop and block the door. First we film you two crying and apologizing.】

At three in the afternoon, I told Nova to take the two apprentices and stay at her uncle's place for a few days.

Nova refused, flat out.

"Why should we be the ones hiding?"

"We didn't do anything wrong!"

"It's not hiding."

I handed her the note I'd just gotten.

"They're coming tonight to smash the shop."

"If you stay, they'll bait you into swinging first."

"Then they cut another clip, and you'll never explain your way out of it again."

Nova gripped the note, her knuckles going white.

In the end she gritted her teeth and got in the car.

"Mom, you can't carry this alone."

"Don't worry."

"I won't be the only one watching the shop tonight."

After I sent Nova off, I went back to the salon by myself, pulled down the shutter, and cut the power inside.

I dragged over a chair and sat, a voice recorder clenched in my hand, my eyes fixed on the security feed.

At eight o'clock sharp, a mess of footsteps broke out outside.

Then a huge bang.

Someone had kicked the shutter.

"Nadia Lawson, you coward!"

"Get out here!"

Old Mrs. Whitney's shrill voice cut through even the metal door.

"You engagement-money-swindling whore!"

"Cough up the money tonight, or you can forget about ever opening again!"

I watched through the little screen beside the door seam.

Seven or eight young men had come, all of them looking like street trash, dragging a banner with black letters on white cloth.

The dyed-hair one leading them held up a paper funeral wreath and shook it at the cameras.

"No money, and this wreath hangs on your door for seven days!"

Done yelling, he grabbed a bucket of red paint and started toward the shutter.

Police lights flared up at both ends of the alley.

"What do you think you're doing!"

The shout slammed down.

Four or five officers climbed out of the patrol cars, the building manager behind them with two security guards, their body cameras running the whole time.

The banner was only half unrolled before an officer tore it down.

The dyed-hair one's grip slipped.

The bucket clanged to the ground, red paint spraying all over his pant legs.

"Nobody move. Down on the ground!"

"Officer, we — we're just here to collect a debt."

The lead officer glanced at the wreath, then at the paint bucket on the ground.

"You collect debts with wreaths and paint?"

"Suspected of causing a disturbance. Take them all in for questioning!"

I pushed open the shutter and walked out of the dark, unlit shop.

The building manager hurried over.

"Ms. Lawson, just like you said, all the footage is saved."

I nodded.

Old Mrs. Whitney was being helped into a patrol car, still craning her head to glare at me, cursing under her breath.

I took out my phone and called my lawyer, Molly Donaldson.

"Lawyer Donaldson, all the evidence is collected."

"The mob video, the shop footage, and the check-in records."

On the line, Molly spoke fast and steady.

"Good. The police have officially taken the case."

"The hotel group has received the assistance-of-investigation notice too."

"Ronnie Whitney's work account and computer will be sealed first."

"The related backend logs will be preserved along with them."

"Ten a.m. tomorrow, we go to Bayview International headquarters."

"The police will pull the original data. I'll go with you."

Watching the patrol car roll out of the alley, I gripped my phone tighter.

"Verify every step. Don't let a single one slip."