Chapter 5 - The Locks I Checked Twice
The parking lot behind our apartment building was almost empty when I pulled in. It was past one in the morning and my hands were still shaking on the wheel. My hair tie was in my apron pocket, digging into my hip every time I moved. I sat there a second too long with the engine off, just looking up at our windows. Our kitchen light was on. That meant Carla had left it on for me, like she always did, but tonight it didn't feel like kindness. It felt exposed.
I grabbed my bag and locked the car twice. The air smelled like wet asphalt and old fryer grease from the diner still stuck to my skin. A car turned onto our street slow, headlights sweeping across the parked cars, and my chest seized. It was dark, low, maybe black. I stepped back between my car and the next one before I could think. It kept going. Just someone cutting through to the main road. I stood there breathing hard, telling myself I was tired, but I memorized the shape of its taillights anyway.
Carla opened the door before I knocked. She had her shoes on and her purse over her shoulder, her phone in her hand.
"She's out," she whispered. "Went down at nine-thirty. No fever. She ate two quesadillas."
I nodded and tried to smile. "Thank you. Sorry I'm late. Busy night."
She studied my face. "You okay? You look wiped."
"I'm fine," I said. Too fast. One lie, and I felt it land heavy between us.
She didn't push. She squeezed my arm on her way out. I locked the door behind her. Then I turned the deadbolt. Then I unlocked it and locked it again just to hear it catch.
The apartment was quiet except for the fridge hum. My uniform felt glued to my back. I dropped my bag by the door and went straight down the short hall to her room.
She was there. Thank God, she was there.
My daughter was curled on her side, one arm thrown over her stuffed rabbit, mouth open a little when she breathed. Her night-light threw a soft yellow circle on the wall. The blanket had slipped down, so I pulled it back up to her shoulders. I stood there too long. I counted her breaths the way I used to when she was a baby and I couldn't sleep. One, two, three. My hand hovered over her hair and I didn't touch her because my fingers smelled like coffee and smoke that wasn't there anymore.
That was three weeks ago, I told myself. There was no smoke in this room.
But my throat closed anyway. I backed out and left her door cracked exactly two inches, the way she liked it.
In the bathroom, I peeled off the uniform. Black fabric with the white trim gone gray at the edges from too many washes. I rolled it tight and shoved it to the bottom of the laundry basket, under my jeans and her pajamas from yesterday. I didn't know why I hid it. I just didn't want to see it on the floor.
The shower ran too hot and I stayed under it until my skin went pink. I scrubbed my arms, my neck, behind my ears. The crash came back in pieces — the heat on my face, the seatbelt cutting into my palms, the weight of him when I pulled. I hadn't thought about the smell in days and now it was all I could smell, even though it was just my cheap shampoo. I pressed my forehead against the tile and breathed until the water turned lukewarm.
When I got out, wrapped in a towel, I checked the front door again. Chain. Deadbolt. Then the windows in the living room. Latched. The kitchen window over the sink. Latched. I told myself I was just tired. I checked the front door a third time.
My phone buzzed on the counter where I'd left it. I hadn't looked at it since my shift started.
One missed call. Unknown number. 11:47 p.m.
No voicemail.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor. I stared at those words until they blurred. The diner phone had rung twice during my shift and hung up both times. Marcy had joked about prank callers. I'd laughed.
I wasn't laughing now. I thought about the man in the black suit saying my name like he'd practiced it. Emma, I've been looking for you. I thought about the black SUV I'd seen parked across from the diner two nights this week, engine running, no one getting out. I'd told myself it was someone waiting for takeout.
I deleted nothing. I screenshotted the missed call and sent it to myself in an email with the date. My hands were steady now, which scared me more than the shaking had.
From the hall came a small sound. I froze.
"Mom?" Her voice was thick with sleep.
She stood in her doorway rubbing her eyes, rabbit dragging by one ear. "You home?"
I went to her fast and knelt down. "I'm home, baby. Go back to bed."
"Did you bring pie?" she mumbled.
I almost cried. "Not tonight. Tomorrow, okay?"
She nodded and leaned her whole weight into me. I held her and smelled baby shampoo and clean sheets, and for a second the night at the diner felt far away. I wanted to tell her everything — that a man knew her name, that I was scared. The words were right there.
I swallowed them. "Let's get you tucked in."
I carried her back, though she was getting too big for it. I tucked the rabbit under her chin and kissed her forehead. She was asleep again before I reached the door.
In the living room, I sat on the couch in my sweatshirt with my wet hair dripping down my back and my phone in my lap. The kitchen light buzzed faintly. The apartment that had always been too small suddenly felt too open, too many corners I couldn't see at once.
May you like
I wasn't going to wait for him to tell me what was true. Tomorrow, after school drop-off, I would go find the crash report myself. I needed to see it in writing.
I left the hall light on and slept on the couch where I could see the front door.
