Chapter 2 - Ten Minutes to Save My Son
"Because he stole it," I said. "And if you don't let me leave, my son is the one who pays."
Ethan Hayes set my bag on the desk within my reach. He didn't apologize for holding it away from me. He simply took out his phone, tapped a number, and said, "Bring the car around. Now."
I didn't move. Men like Ethan didn't do favors without expecting something back. Everybody in Chicago knew that, even women like me who lived three bus rides away from the neighborhoods where his name appeared on buildings.
"I don't need your car," I told him. "I need my money."
"You'll get it. First we get your son."
The words were so plain that I almost believed them.
"You don't understand. Mrs. Higgins doesn't make threats she won't keep. She watches Sam when I work, and I owe her for last week."
"Then we'll settle that too."
"Stop saying 'we.'"
Something flickered across his face. He was younger than I'd expected, maybe thirty-six, with dark hair that curled at the collar, a short beard, and eyes that looked as though they had witnessed things no one should survive. He wore his expensive suit like armor, but a pale scar along one knuckle made me think the armor hadn't always been enough.
"Fair," he said. "You don't know me."
"I know enough."
"Then know this: I'm not going to keep a mother from her child."
He opened the office door. Two large men waited outside. One had an earpiece; the other carried my damp coat.
I took it, suspicious of every kindness. "What about Gregory?"
"He's staying here."
"He'll lie."
"Then he'll have a long evening."
We hurried through the restaurant's service hallway. Gregory stood near the kitchen, his face drained of color. He reached for my elbow as we passed.
"Norah, sweetheart, this is all a misunderstanding."
I jerked away. "Don't touch me."
Ethan stopped. The hallway seemed to narrow around him.
"She said don't touch her," he told Gregory.
Gregory dropped his hand. I had never seen him obey anyone that quickly.
Outside, the rain hit my face like needles. A black SUV waited at the curb. I gave the driver my address, then immediately regretted it. The address revealed everything: the broken neighborhood, the peeling brick, the third-floor apartment whose landlord had taped a final warning to my door.
Ethan climbed in opposite me. He offered me a wrapped sandwich from a bag his driver handed over. I stared at it.
"Eat," he said.
"I can't pay you."
"It's food, Norah. Not a contract."
My hands shook as I unwrapped it. I hated that he watched me take the first bite. I hated even more that the warm bread made tears burn behind my eyes.
"How old is Sam?" he asked.
"Eleven months."
"His father?"
"Not involved."
"I didn't ask whether he deserved to be."
I stopped chewing. Ethan looked out at the rain.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," he said.
At six twenty-eight, we turned onto my street. I was out of the SUV before the driver had fully stopped. I ran up the stairs, gripping the railing to keep my balance.
Mrs. Higgins stood in my doorway with Sam on her hip and a plastic grocery bag at her feet. Her mouth tightened when she saw me.
"You're late again."
"It's six twenty-nine," I gasped.
"I told you six thirty. And I'm finished, Norah. I have my own family."
Sam saw me and began to cry. I took him into my arms, pressing my face into the soft hair at his crown. He smelled like baby soap and the clean blanket I'd washed by hand that morning.
"I'm here," I whispered. "Mommy's here."
Mrs. Higgins glanced over my shoulder. Her eyes widened.
Ethan stood two steps below us, giving me room.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"Someone who gave me a ride."
"You owe me eighty dollars."
I swallowed. "I know. I'll pay you as soon as—"
"I'll cover the eighty," Ethan said, "if you'll give Ms. Davis a receipt."
Mrs. Higgins hesitated, then nodded. He had his driver arrange a digital payment and asked her to confirm it. I couldn't decide whether to feel relieved or humiliated.
"I didn't ask you to do that," I said after she left.
"I know."
"I will pay you back."
"We'll discuss it after you've eaten."
"There you go again."
A corner of his mouth moved. It was not quite a smile.
Inside, my apartment was colder than the hallway. The heater clicked but gave no warmth. There were two clean mugs on the counter, a pot with dried oatmeal at the bottom, and Sam's little blue socks hanging near the window. I had never felt so exposed.
Ethan remained by the door. He didn't inspect the room or make a face. He only looked at the thermostat, then at Sam's thin blanket.
"Your heat's out?"
"The landlord says it's being fixed."
"Since when?"
"Tuesday."
It was Friday.
Sam began reaching toward the empty bottle in my bag. My stomach twisted. I had planned to dilute the last formula and pray he wouldn't notice. Now, with Ethan standing there, I couldn't even pretend.
"I need to go to the store," I said.
"I'll have someone bring formula. What brand?"
I told him. He sent a message, then put his phone away.
"You said Gregory hired you for a month," he said. "Did you sign anything?"
"An employment form. He made me clock in on a tablet."
"Did you keep the messages?"
"Every one."
"Good."
Sam rested his cheek against my shoulder. I felt the weight of the whole day settling into my bones.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
Ethan looked at the baby, then back at me.
"Because I own that restaurant. And if a manager under my name steals wages from a woman who cleans his floors, it becomes my problem."
"That's not how most owners see it."
"Then most owners are wrong."
His phone vibrated. He checked the screen, and the color left his face so quickly I noticed.
"What?" I asked.
He turned the phone facedown.
"Nothing you need to worry about tonight."
But his expression had changed. His shoulders were rigid, and his eyes moved toward my apartment window.
A vehicle rolled slowly past outside.
I heard the low rumble of its engine, then silence.
"Norah," Ethan said, "did Gregory ever ask you to take something home from the restaurant?"
"What? No."
"Think carefully. A package. An envelope. Anything."
I remembered the night Gregory had ordered me to clean his office after closing. He'd been furious when he found me near a locked filing cabinet.
"I took home my pay stub," I said. "The one he printed before he fired me."
"Where is it?"
"In the bag. Why?"
He held out his hand, but didn't take it until I nodded. When he unfolded the paper, his face hardened.
At the bottom, beneath the payroll numbers, was a string of letters and a handwritten notation I had never understood.
Ethan read it twice.
"Who gave you this?"
"Gregory."
He looked at me with something that frightened me more than anger.
May you like
Recognition.
"Norah," he said, "that isn't a pay stub."
