Chapter 3
I called Abigail’s school before breakfast.
The secretary recognized my voice. That almost made it worse; this was a school where the office knew which inhaler belonged in which backpack, not a place I expected to discuss someone photographing my daughter.
“Her pickup plan is changing today,” I said. “Mrs. Alvarez will meet her at the front office. Please don’t release her to anyone else.”
“Is Abigail in danger?”
I looked at the kitchen window. The blinds were closed now, but I could still picture the stranger’s distant angle, my daughter small beneath her backpack.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Abigail listened from the table, one hand around her inhaler. She’d already checked the counter to make sure the spacer was beside it.
“Mrs. Alvarez is coming?” she asked.
“Straight from school to her apartment. I’ll meet you there after work.”
“And if I want to call you?”
“You call. Any time.”
She considered that, then pulled her backpack closer.
“I can do the office thing,” she said. “But I’m not leaving my inhaler in my desk again. I forgot it once, and I don’t want to be stuck.”
“You won’t be.” I zipped the inhaler and spacer into the backpack’s front pocket myself, then let her check the zipper.
She walked to school with Mrs. Alvarez, who had lived downstairs for three years and never once treated my need for help like a debt. I watched them turn the corner before I headed for Oakridge.
The day’s first meeting was already in progress when I reached Darlene’s floor. A security supervisor named Curtis met me outside the conference room, his earpiece curled behind one ear.
“We’re pulling camera footage from your building,” he said. “And the school route.”
“No.”
His brows rose. “Mr. Blake, we need to identify whoever took those pictures.”
“From my building, maybe. Not from her school. Not without talking to me first.”
“You asked for protection.”
“I agreed to one shift protecting Darlene. I didn’t hand Oakridge my daughter’s whole day.”
Curtis looked toward the closed conference-room doors. “Ms. Stanley authorized a review.”
“Then tell her I’m not asking for cameras pointed at Abigail.”
I stepped around him and opened the door.
Darlene sat at the head of the table, one hand resting beside her notes. Grant stood near the windows, turning a silver pen between his fingers. The remaining executives looked up as I entered.
“I need two minutes,” I said.
Darlene studied my face, then nodded. “Everyone else, wait outside.”
Grant didn’t move.
“Everyone,” Darlene repeated.
His smile thinned. “Of course.”
As he passed, his gaze flicked over my work shirt and stopped at the badge clipped to my belt. The look carried the old message: I didn’t belong in the room, and he intended to remind me.
Once the doors shut, I told Darlene what I’d told Curtis.
“I’ll help identify who’s watching you,” I said. “But security doesn’t follow Abigail. They don’t contact her school. They don’t make a file on where she goes.”
Darlene’s jaw tightened. “I understand.”
“Do you? Because the last time someone decided my family’s information was useful, I found my daughter’s medical records in a folder on your desk.”
Pain crossed her face—quick, but not quick enough to miss.
“You’re right,” she said. “Curtis will review only the footage connected to your building and the route where the photograph was taken. Nothing at the school.”
“And if that changes, you ask me.”
“I will.”
She turned toward the door and called Curtis back in. The order was precise, the limits repeated in front of him. No school cameras. No contact with Abigail. No tracking Blake’s family.
When Curtis left, Darlene looked down at the papers in front of her.
“I can make a rule,” she said. “That doesn’t erase what I did.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
It was all I could offer. She accepted it without asking me to soften the truth.
The staff meeting resumed. I took a place along the wall, near enough to watch the exits and far enough to avoid pretending I was an executive. Darlene led the discussion about the coming board vote. Grant waited until she finished before leaning back in his chair.
“The board will want assurance that the person steering this company is fully capable of making clear decisions,” he said. “Especially with a sale on the table.”
Darlene’s expression didn’t change. “Then give them the facts about the sale.”
“I intend to.” Grant’s eyes moved around the room, inviting everyone to hear the concern he hadn’t quite voiced. “But facts include whether a leader’s judgment is being affected by pain, medication, or any other impairment.”
The room went still. A woman at the far end stopped writing.
Darlene’s fingers pressed against the table. Only for a moment. Then she lifted her hand and closed the folder.
“If you have evidence that I’ve made an impaired decision,” she said, “put it before the board. If you have a sales argument, make it. Don’t dress speculation up as concern.”
Grant’s smile returned, now aimed at the others.
“No one wants to see you hurt yourself.”
“I didn’t ask what anyone wants.”
A faint flush rose along his neck. He tucked the pen into his breast pocket and moved to the next item on the agenda as if nothing had happened.
But the room had changed. The executives watched Darlene differently now—not with certainty, but with the first uncomfortable question planted in their minds. Grant had put something into the air and left her to breathe it.
During the break, Darlene remained seated while the others filed out. Her hand hovered near the edge of the table, then curled into a fist. I didn’t ask about the brace. I didn’t want to turn her pain into another thing the room could claim.
Instead, I said, “He didn’t need proof. He needed them wondering.”
“No,” she said. “He didn’t.”
A service alarm flashed on Curtis’s tablet. He checked the screen, then turned toward me.
“Unmarked vehicle at the south service entrance. It’s been sitting there ten minutes.”
Darlene started to rise.
“Stay here,” I said.
Her gaze snapped to mine. “That’s an order you don’t have authority to give.”
“No. It’s a suggestion from the person who can get to the entrance faster.”
For half a second, we stared at each other. Then she gave a small, unwilling nod.
The service entrance opened onto a narrow lane between Oakridge’s loading dock and the vehicle garage. I got there in time to see a dark sedan idling beyond the yellow safety line. Its windows were tinted, its engine running.
When I raised my phone, the driver saw me.
The sedan lurched backward, tires squealing against the painted curb. I caught the license plate in two quick photos before it shot past the gate and disappeared into traffic.
Curtis arrived behind me, breathing hard.
“Got it?” he asked.
“Got enough.”
He took the number to the fleet desk. I stayed by the gate, staring at the empty lane, while the smell of hot rubber faded under the loading dock’s diesel stink.
May you like
Curtis came back holding his tablet. His face had gone quiet.
“That plate is registered to an Oakridge fleet vehicle,” he said. “It was marked out of service after Darlene Stanley’s famous crash.”
