Chapter 3
The man didn't chase him.
I felt his hand tighten around my wrist and pull me back behind the small round table. The white cloth brushed my knees. The plate was still there, the spoon still on it, a little smear of soup cooling fast in the overcast air. The man who'd taken her was already halfway across the plaza, his back to us, hands in his pockets, walking like he owned the stones under his shoes. I tried to pull forward.
"He's leaving," I said. My voice cracked.
The older man didn't look at him anymore. He looked at the server standing frozen by the cafe doorway, then down at me. His gray beard was close enough I could see where he'd missed a spot shaving. His breathing was short and controlled.
"No," he said quietly. "Not out there."
He didn't let go. He turned me with him, his other hand coming up to my shoulder, and steered me toward the open doorway of the cafe. It wasn't a chase. It was a retreat. The server stepped back to let us in. The bell over the door jingled and then the outside sound cut off. Overcast light came through the big front windows and laid flat across the empty tables inside.
We stopped just inside, against the wall where the coats hung and the light was gray and even. He finally let go of my wrist. I could see the red marks where he'd held me. He slipped his hand into his suit pocket and took out the card.
"You said she's right there," the man who took her had been. Now the older man's watch caught the window light as he unfolded it. "Inside. Quiet."
I couldn't be quiet. My hands were shaking again and I clasped them to stop it.
He laid the card flat on his palm under that flat light and flipped it over. I hadn't seen the back. Mom had folded it so small and told me not to open it unless I had to.
On one side was the photo. Faded, worn, creased in the middle. A woman younger than I remembered her, hair pulled back, standing in front of an apartment door with her hand on her stomach, like she was already holding me. The colors were washed out and the edges were stained brown.
On the other side, in blue ballpoint that had bled into the paper, was Mom's handwriting. I knew the way she wrote her E's, loopy and leaning.
Elena — 1428 W. 4th, Apt B — 555-0167
Under it, the same number again, underlined twice.
The older man stared at it a long time. His brow furrowed and then smoothed into something else. His mouth opened a little and didn't make a sound at first.
"Elena," he said. It wasn't a question.
I nodded. My throat was dry.
"That's my mom," I said. "Elena."
He looked from the card to my face. His silver ring tapped against the edge of the card once, a tiny click. He breathed in through his nose.
"She told me to come here," I said. All the words came out fast now that we were inside and the door was between us and the plaza. "She said Tuesday at noon you'd be at this table. She said you always sit outside even when it's cold. She said show you the card and you'd know. She made me memorize it. This cafe. This hour. You."
His eyes didn't leave the card. "When did she tell you this?"
"Last night. Before she vanished. She was packing my backpack. She folded this and put it in my jacket pocket. She said don't wait, don't call, go to him."
He swallowed. I saw his throat move above his burgundy tie. The stern look he'd had outside was gone. He looked older under the gray window light, and tired.
"I knew Elena," he said finally, and his voice was lower than before. "Years ago. She worked for my wife and me. Then for the foundation."
I waited. He didn't look at me when he said it, he looked at the photo.
"I cut contact," he said. "After my wife died. I told myself it was cleaner. For her. She called once last spring. I didn't answer."
The admission hung there between us. The cafe's espresso machine hissed in the back. Somewhere outside, a chair scraped on the plaza stones.
I felt heat come up into my face, even though my hands were still cold. "She said you're the only one who can save her," I said. It was what I'd said outside, but now it sounded smaller, inside.
He folded the card carefully along its old crease and pressed it flat with his thumb. His hand wasn't steady.
"1428 West Fourth," he said, reading the address again like saying it would make it real. "That's eight blocks from here. The brick apartments over the laundromat."
"You know it?" I asked.
He nodded once, sharp. "I do. She lived there three years ago. When she left us."
He slipped the card into his inner suit pocket, over his heart, and zipped it closed. Then he put his hand back on my shoulder. It was heavy and warm.
"We're going there," he said. "Not after him. To her place first. We check the door. We see what she left. You stay right beside me. Understand?"
I nodded. I could hear my own breathing again.
May you like
He looked toward the front windows, where the plaza was still visible through the glass, and the table we'd left was still set with the white cloth and the cooling plate, empty now except for our absence. The man who'd taken her was gone from view.
"Okay, Elena's boy," he said, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "Let's go find out what they did to your mom."
