<div style="text-align: justify;">It was ironic that it was almost Christmas, and Anna’s life was getting worse the closer the day came. It had been so different years ago, when she was a child. A small house, the entire family - mom, dad, and their four children - huddled into the same room. They couldn’t afford more than that. Father was a factory worker. Mom stayed home taking care of the children, and would do some odd jobs when she could, like sewing or making pastries for one of the boys to sell. It wasn’t much, but it helped. She stayed home and helped mom when she wasn’t in school. <br/><br/>Back then, Anna had decided that she needed to get out of that life. One day, she would be rich. She would have a beautiful house, with many bedrooms, and would never want for anything again. She had made this decision one day, when mom had said she wasn’t hungry so the kids could eat a little more. Later, in bed, she could hear her mother’s stomach growling.<br/><br/>Now, she was so far away from that life. She had never gone to bed hungry again. But, at what cost? Some could say, at the cost of her soul. She was well dressed, well fed and well housed. But she wasn’t happy. She was even less happy than back in the small house with everyone using the same space and breathing the same air. Dad was gone now. Mom didn’t want anything to do with her. She didn’t really blame her mother. She wouldn’t want to talk to herself in the woman’s place. But she was no longer poor.<br/><br/>“Anna!”, someone called. “Come here!”. She obeyed. It was the price of her luxury life. Standing up, she went to the living room downstairs. She knew her ‘protector’ was there. “Sign here, dear”. The woman bit her lip and sighed. “What’s that, Bill?”. The man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t ask questions, just sign”, he replied. She knew that gruff intonation. There was an implied threat in it only she knew. “All right, give me a pen”, she requested, and signed the paper without wasting time reading it. It was for the best that she didn’t know.<br/><br/>She had barely slept after signing the paper. One reason was that she was worried. And the other was that she heard something she would never forget. Someone had gotten shot. Someone was probably dead. In the house she was living in. Someone had been murdered. And then Bill had come to bed, as though nothing had happened. That was too much. She wasn’t a saint, but murder under the same roof she was sleeping, no. That was more than she could endure. She needed to get out. She needed someone to protect her.<br/><br/>That had been why she had called. “Mr Stockton?”, a voice asked on the other side of the line. It was a female, and she was either very scared or about to cry - it was hard to say which over the phone.</div>