Page 22 of Nyx

Within a few seconds, the front door of the house opens.

A pretty woman, close to my age, steps out. She looks flustered, despite the smile on her face.

"Juliet?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer.

Her smile drops a little, which concerns me that I might have chosen the wrong attire for today, but she's wearing jeans and a nice blouse, so maybe my analysis of her reaction is wrong.

"I'm so sorry," she begins. "Your interview isn't here. It's at the Cerberus clubhouse."

"Excuse me?" I ask, my brow drawing together in confusion.

"As unprofessional as it makes me look, I gave the right time, but the wrong address. Cerberus conducts all staffing interviews for the shelter."

I look down at my watch. I was a little early, but I doubt I’ll have enough time to get to where she says I need to go and still be on time.

"Don't worry about being late," she says, reading my reaction. "I'll call them and explain my mistake."

"Okay," I tell her. "Where do I need to go?"

She gives me the address, giving me time to pull out my phone and type it into the map app I pull up.

"I'll let them know you're on the way," she says. "So sorry for the confusion."

"It happens," I assure her, giving her a quick smile. "Hope to see you again soon."

She nods before turning back around to go inside.

"Thank you," I tell the guard standing near the door.

He gives me a simple nod of his head.

I try my best not to feel annoyed as I walk back to my car. Things like this can easily happen, but it concerns me that this is my very first in-person interaction with the woman who could become my boss. It makes me wonder just how unorganized everything else at the shelter might be.

I do another quick check of my car before climbing inside, but I have confidence that nothing happened to it while I was standing right there having these conversations. If he saw someone else come up, I'm fairly certain he would've said something.

To be as close to my interview time as possible, I take the shortest route on the map and head in that direction.

The drive takes ten minutes, arrowing me south of the women's shelter, but I slow the car a mile from my destination when I notice a massive fence surrounding the area and a gate blocking the road.

A man steps out of what can only be described as a guard shack as I near the gate, coming around to my side of the car when I stop.

"I may be in the wrong place," I say as I grab my phone and check the map.

"Name?" he says in the same tone the other guy had back at the women's shelter.

"Juliet Mercer," I say, not fumbling the information a second time. I don't offer him more of an explanation. Giving anyone more than what they ask for is something I've had to work on all these years.

"You're in the right place," he assures me. "This is Cerberus property."

I tilt my head, a flash of a memory trying to break through now that I've heard the group's name more than once.

Cerberus, to my recollection, is a group of motorcyclists known for helping trafficked people return home. I haven't done extensive research, but their group has come up in conversations in some of the various women's shelters I've worked in over the years.

They have almost godlike status among some of the women living in the shelters.

At a minimum, they're envied by a lot of people in the victim services field.