Chapter 7
The bell over the front door jingled a little after eight.
I was sitting at the small desk in his office with the charcoal coat folded over the back of the chair and both beige heels tucked underneath it, out of sight. The overhead lights had buzzed on when he flipped the switch with the red indicator, and for the first time I could see the whole front of the warehouse — the chipped counter by the door, the clipboard with delivery slips, the camera monitor that showed four grainy angles of blue and orange racks.
He'd told me to stay in here. Not as an order. He'd just looked at the monitor, seen the sheriff's cruiser pull into the lot, and said, "Stay put, okay?"
I nodded. My mouth was dry.
Through the thin wall I heard the bell again and boots on concrete.
"Morning, Mr. Hayes," a woman said. Her voice was even, professional. "Deputy Albright, county. We got an automatic alert off your motion cameras about two a.m. Everything okay?"
I held my breath. I could see a sliver of him through the cracked office door. He was standing at the counter in the same black suit, hands flat on the laminate like he was trying to look casual.
"Yeah, all good," he said. "I was here late doing inventory. Must have tripped it myself."
"System shows interior movement in aisle three around two-fourteen," she said. I heard paper rustle. "You been having any trespass issues? Kids, folks looking for shelter? Cold snap last night."
He didn't answer right away. I watched his left hand, the silver watch catching the cool white light. He tapped one finger once.
"No," he said finally. "Just me."
I felt a hot wash of shame spread up my neck. He was covering for me. I should have been grateful, but my stomach knotted. If she found me, there would be questions, a report. I thought about my name in a system somewhere, a box checked.
The deputy didn't leave. "Mind if I take a quick look? Standard business check. Two minutes."
"Of course," he said.
Her boots got louder. She walked past the office doorway without stopping, down the main aisle. I could see her shadow pass the crack. I pulled my knees up onto the office chair and tried to make myself smaller. The concrete was still cold against my stocking feet, but I didn't dare reach for the coat.
He stepped into the office doorway, blocking most of the view. He didn't look at me. He just stood there, his back to me, like he was waiting for her to come back. I could hear her radio crackle faintly in the back.
"Warehouse is secure," she called after a minute. Her boots came back. "You got cameras on the side door? That one's always getting jimmied in winter."
"Reinforced it last fall," he said.
She stopped at the counter. I could see her now, just her shoulder and arm as she leaned to write something. Mid-thirties, dark uniform, hair pulled back tight.
She lowered her voice a little. "Look, if you do have someone staying here, Mr. Hayes, there's county assistance. We don't have to do a full report if they don't want law enforcement involved. Housing referral, safe shelter number. No record if they just want help."
My hands started to shake. She knew. Or she guessed. And she was offering a way out that didn't involve handcuffs or paperwork.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. Just a flick of his eyes. He was giving me the choice. I could step out. I could say my name. I could take the card.
I shook my head. Small, sharp. No.
I mouthed it more than said it. I couldn't speak. If I opened my mouth, I was afraid all of it would come out — why I'd been on that floor, why I'd needed the coat as a blanket — and I wasn't ready for it to be written down anywhere.
He turned back to her. "Appreciate that," he said. His voice was even. "I think we're okay for now. But leave the info if you want."
There was a pause. I heard her pen scratch.
"I'll leave my card on the counter," she said. "County assistance, twenty-four hour line. And my direct number on the back. No pressure. Sometimes folks change their mind after a night's sleep."
"Thanks, Deputy."
The bell jingled again. The door shut. Her cruiser started outside and pulled away slowly over the gravel lot. The sound faded.
He didn't move from the doorway for a few seconds. Then he stepped in and picked up the small white card from the counter and set it on the desk in front of me. It was thick, county seal embossed at the top. COUNTY HUMAN SERVICES - HOUSING & SUPPORT. A phone number. On the back, in ballpoint, Deputy M. Albright with a cell number.
He didn't push it toward me. He just left it there.
"No report," he said quietly. "She logged it as business check, no incident."
I stared at the card. My throat was tight.
May you like
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once. He didn't ask why I hadn't come out. He just pulled the office door closed a little more against the draft from the front and went back to the counter, leaving me alone with the card ticking on the desk like a quiet clock.
