Chapter 10 - County Road Back
I drove out before noon with the pie pan on the passenger seat. I'd rinsed it that morning and dried it by hand. It felt wrong to bring it back empty.
My name is Luca Moretti, and I was the kid who knocked on her door before school.
The old block was off the county road past the diner, three stories of gray brick with rust on the fire escape. I hadn't been there in twenty years. The parking lot still had the same cracked asphalt, the same dumpster leaning against the fence. I parked and just sat for a minute with the engine off, listening to it tick. I didn't want to find out I'd made it all up.
The landlord's office was on the first floor. A man named Doyle, late fifties, buzz cut, came to the door with a clipboard. I told him who I was looking for.
"Rosa Alvarez? Yeah. Second floor, back in the day. Apartment 2B," he said. "She's been gone a long time. You family?"
"No," I said. "She used to watch me."
He nodded like he'd heard it before. "She watched half this building. Fed kids in the morning, too. Oatmeal, toast, whatever she had. For years. Management didn't like it, people in and out, but nobody complained enough to stop her. She wouldn't take money for it."
My throat went tight. "You're sure? For years?"
"Mister, I collected rent here since '98. I saw the line at her door at seven a.m. with my own eyes." He tapped his clipboard. "She called everybody honey whether she knew their names or not."
I thanked him and walked up the stairwell. The carpet was gone, just concrete and paint. On the second floor, the door to 2B was painted blue now, different number plate. I stood there too long. I could hear a TV inside.
An older woman came out of 2C with a laundry basket, stopped when she saw me staring. She had short gray hair and a brace on one wrist.
"You lost?" she asked.
"I used to live here," I said. "Third floor. With my mom. I used to go to Mrs. Miller — to Rosa — in the mornings."
She studied my face, then my hands. "Hungry boy," she said. "Dark hair always in your eyes. You'd sit on her step with your backpack between your knees."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "That was me."
"You cried once because you spilled cereal on picture day," she said. "She dried your shirt with a dish towel and walked you to the bus. You remember that?"
I didn't, not exactly, but my eyes burned anyway. "I remember the cereal."
She set the basket down and went back inside. "Hold on," she said. A minute later she came back with a shoebox. Inside were class photos in plastic sleeves. She flipped to one, second grade, faded color. There I was in the second row, too-small collar. And at the far edge, half out of frame, a woman in a cardigan with her hand on another kid's shoulder.
"Field trip chaperone," the neighbor said. "She came because three parents couldn't get off work. That's Rosa."
I stared at it. Proof didn't feel like triumph. It felt like weight. "Can I — can I take a picture of this?"
She nodded. I took it with my phone, hands not quite steady.
I ended up at the county road diner after. Vinyl booth, coffee that tasted burnt. I set the pie pan on the table and looked at the photo on my phone for a long time.
Then I called Emma.
She picked up on the second ring, voice low. "Mr. Moretti?"
"Luca," I said. "Are you at work?"
"Yes. In the laundry room."
"Listen to me. Whatever Vanessa said, whatever anyone said about last night, your job is safe. I'm putting it in writing today. An email from me, and a copy to the house manager. No retaliation for bringing Mrs. Alvarez in. Do you understand?"
A pause. I heard a dryer buzzing behind her. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you did the right thing," I said. "And I don't want you paying for it."
"I was scared I'd be fired," she whispered.
"You're not," I said. "I'll send it before I drive back. If anyone gives you trouble, you forward them my email."
"Thank you," she said. Her voice cracked a little. "She asked about you this morning. Rosa did. She wanted to know if you ate."
I looked down at the empty pan. "Tell her I'll bring this back myself."
May you like
I hung up and typed the email right there in the booth, cc'd the manager, plain language. Job protected. No discipline. Commended for compassion to a guest. I hit send before I could soften it.
The waitress refilled my coffee. Outside, trucks passed on the highway. I had witness proof now, a photo, names. I still had no idea what I was going to say to Vanessa.
