(no subject)
A few days after this, a brown paper parcel rather obsessively done up with tape is left with the shelter's harried volunteer receptionist. "Emma", it says on the front in black ink and distinctive handwriting, full of slashes and sweeping curves. (Spike had growled aloud when it finally dawned on him that Emma was the name of the bloody irritating lawyer bint from Wolfram & Hart. Angel's penchant for hairshirts had nothing on this girl.)
Inside the package is a New York State driver's license, or at least a fake several cuts above what the NYU students buy for access to beer, in the name of Emma Williams. The unflattering photo of a girl with slightly lank hair on the front isn't actually Beth, but it easily could be.
Beneath that, folding in thirds, is a sheaf of slightly blurry legal-size photocopies that prove to be a lease for an apartment a few blocks away, also in the name of Emma Williams, and a set of keys.
The building is shabby but sturdy, with stone steps worn down in the middle. The apartment, on the third floor, is a studio, an efficiency kitchen lining one wall. A full-sized futon on a pine frame, still in its plastic packaging, completes the furnishings. The walls are freshly painted a flat white, subtly clashing with the cheap formica cabinets and appliances. At least they're fairly clean.
On the fridge is a magnet advertising a 24 hour locksmith, and $300 in twenties. On an unsigned post-it, the same spiky handwriting reads "Change the locks."
Inside the package is a New York State driver's license, or at least a fake several cuts above what the NYU students buy for access to beer, in the name of Emma Williams. The unflattering photo of a girl with slightly lank hair on the front isn't actually Beth, but it easily could be.
Beneath that, folding in thirds, is a sheaf of slightly blurry legal-size photocopies that prove to be a lease for an apartment a few blocks away, also in the name of Emma Williams, and a set of keys.
The building is shabby but sturdy, with stone steps worn down in the middle. The apartment, on the third floor, is a studio, an efficiency kitchen lining one wall. A full-sized futon on a pine frame, still in its plastic packaging, completes the furnishings. The walls are freshly painted a flat white, subtly clashing with the cheap formica cabinets and appliances. At least they're fairly clean.
On the fridge is a magnet advertising a 24 hour locksmith, and $300 in twenties. On an unsigned post-it, the same spiky handwriting reads "Change the locks."