Chapter 3
The car smelled like leather and the coffee still on Mr. Belgasham's pants.
I was in the middle of the back seat. The guard had his hand on my arm so tight his fingers dug in. Mr. Belgasham sat on my other side with the white napkin folded over his knee. The stain on his trouser leg had gone dark and cool. Outside the window the cafe was already gone, just the beige stone buildings sliding past and people on the sidewalk turning to look after us.
The car didn't stop. It just pulled smooth away from the curb and kept going.
Nobody talked for a block. The driver didn't look back. I could hear the guard breathing next to me, fast and shallow. His other hand wasn't on me. It was up high, pressed flat against his chest, holding his jacket closed.
Mr. Belgasham looked at that hand.
"Why are you shaking?" he said. His voice was quiet.
The guard didn't move his hand. Sweat was on his forehead even though the car was cool.
"I'm not," he said.
Mr. Belgasham kept looking at him. I watched his eyes move from the hand to the guard's face and back again. He didn't raise his voice.
"Empty your pockets," he said.
The guard laughed a little, like he tried to make it sound normal. "Boss, come on. He's just a crazy street kid. I told you."
"Empty them."
The guard shifted. He had to let go of my arm to do it. He pulled his right hand out from his chest just enough to dig into his pants pocket. He brought out a phone and dropped it on the seat between us. Then keys. He held his hands open after that, palms up.
"See? That's it," he said. His left hand went right back to his chest, clutching the leather jacket closed over his shirt pocket.
Mr. Belgasham didn't look at the phone. He looked at the hand that had gone back.
"All of them," he said.
The guard swallowed. "That's all of them."
I felt my own hands shaking now. My shirt was still damp where the coffee had splashed. I remembered the table, the white top with the gold rim, the way the cup had sat there steaming before Mr. Belgasham touched it.
Mr. Belgasham turned to me. He didn't touch me. He just waited a second, breathing slow, and then he asked, quiet, "What did you see?"
That was when I had to say it out loud. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
I said I was by the cafe wall. I wasn't trying to beg or anything. I was just standing there. I saw the guard standing near the table while Mr. Belgasham was looking the other way. He stepped close and his hand went over the cup. Not around it. Over the top. His fingers were pinched like he was holding something small. Then he opened them. Something white fell. Like powder. Or a little capsule that broke when it hit the coffee. It was fast. He wiped his hand on his jacket and stepped back.
The guard stared at me while I talked. His face got red.
"He's lying," he said. "You going to listen to him over me? I been with you five years."
Mr. Belgasham didn't answer him right away. He looked down at the stain on his leg, then at the guard's hand still pressed to his chest pocket.
"You hovered over my cup," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I didn't," the guard said. "I was getting a napkin. Ask the waiter. That coffee was poison? That's insane. Why would I—"
Mr. Belgasham cut him off, still calm. "Then open your jacket."
The guard didn't move. His hand pressed harder. I could see his knuckles go white and a little shake start in his wrist no matter how still he tried to keep it.
"Boss, don't do this in front of the kid," he said.
The car turned a corner. We weren't going toward the sirens I could hear two streets over. We were going deeper between the stone buildings, toward a courtyard with a black iron gate that was already opening. The driver didn't ask for directions. He just knew.
Mr. Belgasham folded the napkin once, clean side out, and set it on his knee. He looked at me again for a second, like he was checking I was still there, and then back at the guard.
May you like
"We're going inside," he said, mostly to the driver. "He keeps his pocket closed until we're upstairs."
The guard kept holding his chest the whole way through the gate. I believed what I'd seen now because Mr. Belgasham did. And I understood we weren't going to a police station at all.
