I married a lonely elderly woman for her money and a roof over my head. But after her funeral, her attorney gave me a box and said, “She told me this is what you truly wanted.”

I retreated into the shadows, a desperate kind of panic setting in. I was a broke twenty-six-year-old who used to flip burgers. I wasn't equipped for a war with a crime syndicate.

I patted my pockets, looking for anything that could help. My fingers brushed against the thick, heavy winter jacket I was wearing. The one Eleanor had draped over my chair. “You’ll catch your death in that flimsy thing,” she had said.

I remembered how she had insisted I wear it today to the reading of the will.

I slipped the jacket off in the alleyway and ran my hands over the thick inner lining. Near the left breast pocket, there was a hard, rectangular lump sewn into the fabric.

I found a piece of broken glass on the pavement and frantically sawed at the seams. Ripping the fabric apart, a small, laminated card fell into my palm.

It was a fake ID. The photo was of me, but the name read Alexander Hayes. Alongside it was a sleek black credit card and a small piece of paper with a PIN number.

Eleanor hadn't just made me the bait. She had given me an escape route.

I pulled my hood up, kept my head down, and walked six blocks to the nearest ATM. I slid the black card in and punched in the PIN.

The screen loaded. My breath hitched.

Available Balance: $250,000.00

She had funded a ghost account for me. I withdrew the maximum daily limit in cash, shoved it into my pockets, and hailed a taxi.