I walked away.
“Rue.”
I turned one last time.
“Thank you for Belle.”
His voice was quiet.
No power in it.
No expectation.
Just a father speaking to the woman who had stayed with his daughter on a freezing garage floor.
I nodded.
Then I left.
My best friend Tasha was sleeping on my couch when I got home.
Technically, it was my couch.
Technically, it was also where Tasha slept three nights a week because her boyfriend snored like industrial machinery.
She woke when I came through the door at 2:38 a.m.
She squinted at me.
“Why do you look like you’ve been hit by a very expensive truck?”
I dropped my purse.
“I met Harlan Voss.”
Tasha sat upright.
“You did what?”
“I found his daughter.”
She stared.
“In a parking garage.”
Her mouth opened.
“She’s fine.”
Her mouth closed.
“Probably.”
It opened again.
“Tasha, could you please make the face after I finish?”
She pressed both hands over her mouth.
I told her everything.
The garage.
Belle.
The SUVs.
The hospital.
June Callaway.
Eleanor Voss.
The box.
When I finished, Tasha remained quiet for a full ten seconds.
That might have been a personal record.
Then she said, “Your mother had a secret theater life.”
“Apparently.”
“With rich people.”
“Apparently.”
“And Harlan Voss has a mystery box with your name on it.”
“My mother’s name.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Tasha studied me.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You’re scared and exhausted.”
I sat beside her.
On the coffee table, underneath a half-empty cup of tea, was the eviction notice.
PAY OR VACATE.
Seven days.
I had already used two.
Tasha followed my eyes.
“You should see what’s in the box.”
“What if it’s nothing?”
“Then it’s nothing.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then at least you know.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“My mother didn’t keep things from me.”
Tasha was quiet.
Then, gently, “Everybody keeps some things.”
I opened my eyes.
“She was my mother.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.
It’s just permission for her to have been a whole person before she was yours.”
That stayed with me.
For the rest of the night.
At nine the next morning, my manager called to tell me I was late.
I informed him I was not scheduled until eleven.
He informed me that Lorraine had called off.
I informed him that this sounded like a Lorraine problem.
He threatened to cut my Friday shift.
I was at the diner by 9:45.
Being poor did not allow for dramatic principles.
By noon, I had refilled thirty-seven coffees, dropped one plate of hash browns, been called “sweetheart” by six strangers, and earned twenty-two dollars in tips.
At 12:17, a man in a charcoal coat walked into the diner.
I recognized him from the garage.
One of Harlan’s people.
My stomach sank.
He took a booth.
I walked over.
“If you’re here to kidnap me into a black SUV, I should warn you I have two tables waiting on pancakes.”
He blinked.
Then smiled.
“No kidnapping.”
“Good.”
“My name is Theo Bennett.”
The name clicked.
Mara had said she thought Belle had gone downstairs with Theo.
He seemed to read the recognition on my face.
“I’m Belle’s driver.”
“And yesterday?”
“Yesterday I made an assumption I won’t make again.”
