Chapter 2
He didn't move closer after he said my name.
That was the thing I remembered later. He'd been walking toward me, slow and deliberate, and when he said "Margo? What happened?" he stopped. Three steps away, like the video had frozen him there. His shoulders dropped a little. The hard line in his jaw softened, and he looked at me like he was trying to place a face that shouldn't have been on his concrete floor.
I kept the coat pulled tight around me. The charcoal wool was heavy and it smelled like concrete dust and old cardboard, but it was the only thing between me and the cold coming up from the floor. My hands were fisted in it at my chest. One of my heels was off, tipped on its side by my bare foot. I could feel the floor grit under my heel.
He glanced down at my feet, then back at my face. He didn't look angry anymore. Just contained.
"You're okay to stand?" he asked. His voice was lower now. "There's water in the office. You don't have to stay on the floor."
I shook my head before I meant to. Not no to water. No to standing. My legs had gone numb from the way I'd been curled up, and I didn't want to try to get up with him watching. I didn't want the coat to slip.
"I didn't mean to —" I started, and my throat caught. I swallowed. "I can explain."
He waited. He didn't fill the silence for me, and that made it worse. The warehouse was quiet except for the hum of the overhead lamps. Cool white light poured down on us and made everything look sharp and exposed. Behind him the aisles went dark between the blue and orange racks.
I forced out the first lie because it was easier than the truth. "My car broke down. Just outside. It was late and it was cold and the door was unlocked. I just needed somewhere out of the wind until morning."
It sounded thin even as I said it. My voice was hoarse from sleeping on concrete.
He tilted his head slightly. I saw the silver watch on his left wrist catch the light when he moved his hand. Black suit, black shirt, black belt with that silver buckle — everything about him was neat and intentional, and I was suddenly very aware of my hair stuck flat on one side, my cream blouse wrinkled under the coat, my skirt twisted around my knees.
"Which door?" he asked quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"Which door was unlocked?" He didn't raise his voice. He just asked it like he was checking a detail on an inventory sheet. "I locked the main roll-up and the side entrance myself last night. At nine."
The red indicator on the wall switch behind him glowed faintly. I'd seen his hand near it when he found me. He controlled the lights, the doors, all of it. And he knew I hadn't come through a door he'd left open.
My fingers tightened in the wool. I didn't answer. I couldn't make another lie stick that fast.
He looked away for a second, exhaled through his nose. When he looked back his expression wasn't stern anymore. It was tired.
"I'm not calling the sheriff," he said. That sentence landed heavier than anything else. I felt my shoulders drop before I told them to. "Not right now. But you can't stay on the floor. Forklift comes through at seven. Concrete's thirty-eight degrees."
I nodded, but I still didn't move. He noticed.
"I'm going to step back," he said. "You can stand when you're ready. Office is warm. There's a sink. No one will come in until the delivery at eight."
He actually took a half step back to give me space. The watch shifted again. I stared at that little flash of silver because it was easier than looking at his face.
Slowly I pushed the coat around me like a blanket and got my knees under me. My bare foot found the inside of my beige heel and I slipped it back on without standing, hands still clutching the coat closed. The wool dragged when I tried to get up and I had to gather it. He didn't reach for me. He just watched to make sure I didn't fall.
Once I was on my feet, swaying a little, he gestured with an open hand toward the back corner of the warehouse, where a small office with glass windows sat under the racks. The light inside was off.
"This way," he said. "Keep the coat if you need it."
I pulled it tighter — my shield, my blanket, the only thing that had kept me from freezing overnight — and followed him, keeping that three steps of distance between us the whole way. He walked slightly ahead, not beside me, and I noticed he kept his right hand near his side, not in his pockets, like he wanted me to see he wasn't going to touch me.
At the office door he flipped the switch inside and warm yellow light came on. There was a desk, a space heater already humming low, a water cooler, and a metal chair. He stepped aside and let me go in first, but he stayed in the doorway. His hand rested on the doorframe, not closing it, just holding it.
"Sit," he said. "I'll get water. Then you tell me what really happened."
I sank into the chair, coat still wrapped around my shoulders and legs, heels both finally on my feet but tucked together under the edge of the coat. The heater ticked. He poured a small paper cup and set it on the desk near me, not handing it directly, so I had to choose to reach for it.
May you like
I reached. My hand shook.
He didn't sit. He stayed standing by the door, by the switch, and looked at me over that desk like a man deciding how long he could afford to keep a problem off the books before it became his responsibility.
