Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

People grieve in different ways. Pete is stewing in rage. When my father died after swerving off the road to avoid a deer and smashing into a tree at the age of thirty-six, my mother turned to alcohol and then drugs.

As for me, I stay busy. That makes it harder for my demons to catch me.

Right now, going home isn't an option. Marco moved out last year, but memories of him linger like a ghost. Last night I kept seeing him lift his head off the pillow next to mine, his eyes sleepy and his longish hair rumpled. This morning, I flashed to an image of him leaning against the kitchen counter, a tiny bit of espresso foam on his upper lip as he sipped from his cup.

I reach for my cell phone and call Charles.

It's five o'clock on a Saturday, but chances are Charles will be free. He's been married for forty years, but it's a hollow union. He and his wife share a home and not much else. Charles has a cordial but distant relationship with his two adult sons, too, for reasons I don't fully understand.

It's one of the threads that links us—we're two loners who long for connection.

"Free for dinner?" I ask when he picks up.

He hesitates. "Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"How does Old Angler's sound? Say, 6:30."

"Perfect."

I disconnect the call, but can't shake the sense that Charles isn't being entirely truthful. That brief hesitation hinted of other plans he is probably now canceling in order to see me.

If I were a better person, I would've pressed Charles harder to be honest about whether he had a conflict. But I need him too much right now.

He's the only adult in my life who has always been there for me.

I met Charles when I was seventeen, the day after I discovered a briefcase filled with cash.

I was a high school senior, working as a sandwich maker for minimum wage at a deli on Western Avenue, the street that divides DC and Maryland. I took as many shifts as I could, and not just because I was broke. I'd been living with my aunt ever since my mother died of a drug overdose when I was seven, and having a job got me out of the house.

By the time I'd been employed at the deli for a week, I'd memorized the ingredients of all thirty-two sandwiches listed on the big overhead menu. I worked the grill, lining up chopped vegetables and meats in neat, sizzling rows, then topping them with cheese and scooping up each row with my long, flat spatula before slipping it into a freshly sliced baguette.

My first paycheck was for seventy-four dollars. I remember staring down at that slim rectangle of paper in my hands, thinking of all the things I yearned to buy. My aunt prohibited makeup, and bought me only a few cheap, sturdy items of clothing from Sears every year—navy slacks and shorts, and a couple of plain T-shirts and sweaters.

It didn't make high school any easier.

I would've loved to have used some of my earnings to buy a tube of mascara or lip gloss, and maybe a pair of jeans with rips at the knees and chunky Steve Madden wedges like the other girls wore.

Instead, I walked to the bank next door and opened a savings account and deposited every cent.

Even back then, I knew the most valuable thing money could buy was a way out.

Legally, I needed to stay with my aunt until I was an adult in the eyes of the courts that had assigned her to be my guardian. But when I turned eighteen—the week after I was scheduled to graduate high school—I'd be on my own. My aunt had made it crystal clear she wasn't going to pay for college. While other seniors talked about college or gap years, I kept my head down and worked double shifts on the weekends.

I was under no illusions about what life on my own would be like—a rental in someone's moldy basement, peanut butter sandwiches and oatmeal for meals—but that would still be better than living with my aunt, breathing the air that always seemed filled with her resentment toward me. I was counting the days until I could leave.

I found the briefcase late on a Saturday night. It was just me and one other employee closing up, and I was flipping chairs on top of tables to clear the floors for vacuuming.

I almost didn't see the briefcase at first. It was tucked beneath a chair, its dark walnut color blending in with the wood of the tables.

It didn't have any identifying characteristics. No ID tag or monogram.

Without giving it much thought, I opened it.

When I saw the stacks of twenties, I sucked in my breath.

I spun around, but my coworker was mopping the kitchen floor, loudly singing along to the Bon Jovi song playing over the deli's speakers.

I closed the briefcase quickly and left it exactly where I'd found it.

I suspected it belonged to a thin, jittery guy who'd come in late for a Pepsi. His pupils were so huge his eyes looked black—like my mother's used to get when she was high. He was worse than the customers who undressed you with their eyes, or the ones who sent back their food because they hadn't bothered to read the menu and didn't realize their sandwich contained onions.

This guy felt like danger.

The only people who would carry around that kind of cash had to be criminals. He'd be back for it, I was certain.

A half hour later, our doors were locked and I'd finished vacuuming. The briefcase was still there. So I picked it up and carried it into the small storage room. I tucked it behind a box of the clamshell containers we used for carry-out orders. I was opening the deli tomorrow morning, so when the guy realized his briefcase was gone, I'd be here to return it.

I hesitated, then checked to make sure my coworker wasn't nearby before I opened the briefcase again.

I reached forward, thumbing through the bills and tallying the total in my head.

It was more money than I'd ever seen.

That night I lay in the twin bed in my aunt's spare room—even after ten years, it never felt like my bedroom—watching the shadows from an oak tree play across my wall. I kept feeling those bills slipping past my thumb, like poker cards I was shuffling.

Ten thousand dollars. A small fortune. More than enough to buy a used car and put down the first month's rent and security deposit on a cheap room.

It would give me a running start.

But the man with black eyes would come back. I was sure of it.

At a few minutes before 6 a.m., I unlocked the doors of the deli and stepped inside. Two of my coworkers and our manager trickled in as the smell of the coffee I was brewing filled the air. I was unpacking the delivery of croissants and muffins from a local bakery, arranging them in the glass case by the cash register, when our first customer arrived: a tall, elegant man. He looked around, then walked toward me.

"Good morning."

I couldn't return his greeting. My mouth was full because I'd swiped a blueberry muffin and I'd been pulling off chunks to nibble while I worked.

"I'm wondering if you can help me," the man continued. "I left my briefcase here last night. I figure someone took it, but I thought I'd check anyway. Did anyone happen to see it?"

I'd been wrong about the owner of the briefcase; it didn't belong to the man with black eyes.

For a split second, I considered lying. This man didn't look like he could hurt anyone. I clocked his expensive-looking pin-striped suit and fancy watch. He didn't expect to get the money back. He probably wouldn't even miss it.

I wanted to lie so badly.

But I couldn't.

Not because I was a scrupulously honest person—the swiped muffin was evidence of that—or because I felt bad for the guy.

The only reason I didn't keep the money was because I figured I'd get caught. Life didn't usually break my way. This could only end badly.

I swallowed my muffin and nodded. "I found it." Then something made me ask: "Can you describe it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Smart of you to check. It's dark brown. A couple years old."

"Be right back."

I went into the storage room and grabbed the briefcase and brought it out. I handed it across the counter to the man, who was smiling by now.

"I can't believe it. Thank you so much." He opened the briefcase and looked inside, then pulled out five of the twenties and slid them across the counter to me.

"Here. I insist."

I wasn't going to argue. "Thanks." I folded up the bills and tucked them in my pocket.

"It's so rare to meet someone with integrity these days. I'm a defense lawyer, and you have no idea how many liars and thieves I encounter in my line of work. Did you look in the briefcase when you found it?"

Something about him inspired me to be honest. Maybe because I wanted to be the kind of person he imagined I was. So I nodded.

"You could've kept the money. It's from a client who paid in cash yesterday, and I had no way to trace it."

"Don't remind me." I wasn't completely joking, but he threw back his head and laughed.

Then he leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as they traveled over my face. He was assessing me, but not in a creepy way.

"You found this last night. And you're back working again this early?"

I shrugged. "Yeah."

"Are you still in high school?"

Normally I'd bristle at personal questions from a customer. But something about this guy's manner put me at ease.

"I'm a senior. Graduating in June."

"How are your grades?"

"Honor roll," I replied truthfully. I'd harbored a fantasy about getting a scholarship to college, so I'd worked hard in all my classes.

"And what are you doing after graduation?"

"I—I, ah—"

I have no idea.

He nodded, like he'd registered my unspoken words.

"You're obviously a hard worker. Do you like it here?"

I shrugged. Does anyone like working at a place for minimum wage where they get burn marks from the grill and always smell like fried onions? "Sure."

He nodded again, just once, like he'd come to a decision. Then: "Too bad."

"Why?"

I held my breath, waiting for his answer. Somehow I already knew finding that money was going to provide me with a way out after all.

"My receptionist is expecting her first baby and just gave notice. She's leaving in May. And it's almost as difficult to find a smart, hard worker as it is to find an honest person these days. So if you like this job, it'll be harder to convince you to come work for me."

He smiled and held out his hand. "I'm Charles."