2. Galena
GALENA
Y ou learn a lot about people when you serve them eggs.
The rich ones never thanked anyone. The lonely ones stayed even when the food was cold. And the truly dangerous either avoided eye contact or, worse, stared you down until you broke.
I once believed I could spot a monster from a mile away.
That was before. Before the blood. Before the trip to the hospital.
Before I stopped believing that people were inherently kind.
I used to think that all I needed to do was be a good person, and others would be good back. That was before my mother was killed.
When I was little, I thought monsters were creatures with teeth and claws—hairy beasts that crept from under the bed to grab your ankles when you kicked off the covers in your sleep.
They would be like the animals in Where the Wild Things Are , creeping in the corners or hiding in my closets.
Now I knew better. Now I realized that monsters could come in all shapes and sizes, and they could find you anywhere.
They could take everything from you when you least expected it.
The bell above the diner door jingled, but I didn’t look too closely.
I didn’t need to. I felt them—two of them.
Too still. Too clean. Suits that didn’t belong in this part of Queens.
They walked like men accustomed to power and people who said yes.
These were men familiar with violence, not the sticky scent of pancakes.
My grip tightened on the coffee pot. The past few months had been a struggle for me—a journey of self-reliance since I was on my own.
I tried to convince myself that not every man in a suit was out to get me, but it was a constant challenge.
Before, I’d been like an ostrich with my head in the sand.
Bad things didn’t happen to me. Sure, the city was dangerous, but I took the subway to my college classes.
I walked to the market. Now, my head was on a swivel.
It was better to be cautious than to be stupid. Another hard-earned lesson.
“Table six,” Dolores hissed from the window, like I hadn’t already clocked them. “Smile, baby girl. The tall one might be a good tipper.”
I gave a tight nod and walked over, doing my best to seem normal, like someone whose heart wasn’t pounding behind her ribs as if in the middle of a prison break.
“Coffee.” It was a statement of fact since I was already pouring without even waiting for their answer. “If you want cream, that’s all there is. Nothing fancy.” I pointed to the small dish of cheap creamers, not caring much if they didn’t like it. This wasn’t Starbucks.
The taller one nodded, but didn’t drink his coffee, just squinted at me.
He had a scar across his cheek, like someone had tried to cut the expression off his face a long time ago.
The other man looked softer—well, comparatively.
More Wall Street than war zone. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. I wasn’t fooled.
Neither belonged here. Every part of my body was primed as if I’d stuck a fork in an electrical socket, my spine straightened even more.
Everything about this pair screamed money way past the sort of money that you’d find at some greasy spoon near a subway stop that saw more homeless and working class than even any kind of corporate type. They also shouted criminal sleaze balls. At this point, I felt like I had a handle on the type.
“You want something else?” I didn’t bother to be polite.
This pair wasn’t here for the food, so I wasn’t going to waste my time.
Whatever they were doing here wasn’t my problem.
That was something else I’d learned. Being polite was for fools.
It was already the end of my shift, and while the concept of home had disappeared after my mother’s death, I still didn’t plan on spending more time on my feet than I had to.
“No.” The guttural one-word answer wasn’t exactly rude, but it wasn’t polite either. I had no reason to be worried, but I still took the opportunity to turn and walk away from the table like my ass was on fire.
“Fine. Wave one of us down if you change your mind. Refills are free.”
I didn’t know how, or why, or what the hell they were doing here, but they weren’t here for waffles. Maybe they worked for him —the man who had been in charge that day.
My mother had only been dead for a little more than seven months, but the memory of that day was fresh and hot. Our walk home from the market, arms swinging with grocery bags, was interrupted so savagely.
“Where do you think you’re going, Maria?
” he’d sneered. “You may be dressed respectable now, but you’ll always be one of Alexei’s whores.
” He’d grabbed her and pulled her close to him, laughing at her.
“You’ve been living large away from the life.
Time to take you down a peg. The Commission thinks they’re in charge, but they’re not. ”
Frozen, my mother urged me to run as he cackled at her terror, while my mind reeled from his ugly words. Even as she pushed me, I couldn’t bring myself to leave her, and then I couldn’t have run even if I wanted to. All I could do was bleed.
“You’ll be quiet. Won’t you? Or we’ll find you.
Or should I cut out your tongue now?” he’d asked as he’d loomed over me.
I hadn’t even been able to nod my assent, only mumble desperately against the concrete.
“We could have done anything we wanted,” he laughed.
“You’re lucky we didn’t. Maybe next time we’ll come back and have a go at you, get a feel for that sweet little body? ”
My nails dug into my palms as I tried to ground myself in reality. It had gotten better recently, and I’d been trying to build myself back brick by brick from my mother’s death and the assault that had wreaked havoc on my life in so many ways.
There were things I wanted to put into motion, but first, I needed to get stronger, and that seemed to be taking the longest. This small interaction with these customers was just another reminder that I still had a ways to go in that area.
I’d come a long way, but for what I needed to do, there was still work to do.
Growing up, I only remember a home that was kind and filled with stability. A mother who made sure I had good food to eat and that I went to school on time. Someone who helped me tie my shoes and braided my hair, but even as a child, I knew she kept secrets. There were things she wouldn’t tell me.
I had liked my stepfather, Leland. He had been good to me in his own way.
I never wanted for anything except a genuine connection with him, which he never gave me.
He treated me more like one of his students at school than a daughter, but he was always decent.
It wasn’t until I got older that I began to ask questions about my biological dad. Like any kid, I wanted answers.
That was where my mother’s secrets became bigger and darker.
I could see from the shadows in her eyes that there were doors that would stay closed forever.
Who was my father? What about my grandparents?
My mother always panicked when I brought up those questions, and I learned to stop asking.
When genealogy projects came up at school, I took the loss and made up a make-believe name for my father, ignoring the icky feeling in my stomach when I did.
My mother’s life before Leland was something she never talked about, and I realized that even he wasn’t aware of what it entailed.
Maybe she told him in private, but I didn’t think so.
It was a no-man’s land that we weren’t allowed to approach, and I learned to stop asking questions about even that part of her life.
She was perfectly happy to tell me about her early girlhood years, but anything beyond that wasn’t welcome.
I never asked about her teenage years or if she went to college.
Those were questions I knew she would never answer. Of course, now I’d never know.
“You ready to clock out?” Dolores asked, wiping down the counter as if it owed her money. She was a clean freak extraordinaire, but I’d never complain about it since there were few things I liked less in life than a dirty kitchen. Dolores wasn’t lazy, that was for sure .
I shrugged. “Yeah.” Tugging at the strings of my apron, I shot another cautious look at the suits.
They seemed to be surveying the diner patrons and having a low conversation among themselves, but otherwise, they weren’t bothering anyone.
Still, they made me nervous. Their resemblance to the men who attacked my mother and me couldn’t be ignored.
Between the suits, that aura of power, and that indefinable sense that they could do anything they wanted and get away with it, there was a parallel between these men and the attackers that made me itch.
They hadn’t moved or stared excessively, but their presence in the restaurant still made me uneasy.
One of them wore a gold pinky ring. Rings on men grossed me out, but one of the men that day wore one.
Might mean something. Probably was nothing.
Our clientele here was strictly working-class, and they stood out. Even now, I could see the other patrons skirting around them or outright giving them wary looks. It wasn’t just my own paranoia.
Nodding at Dolores, I gave her a little wave. “I’m out of here. I’ll see you later.”
She glanced at the table and then gave me an understanding look. She knew what was pressing my buttons even though I hadn’t specified. “Sure, honey. Take your share of the tip kitty on the way out.”
I liked Dolores. She had been more than kind to me, accepting my bedraggled appearance without comment when I’d asked for a job that paid cash.
When I got hired, I needed to be off the grid, and the diner was the perfect spot.
Hardly any paperwork. I was able to use one of my fake IDs, which had worked out well for me because I didn’t want to risk burning the one I’d used before.
I wasn’t sure if the men who had attacked my mother and me were going to try to find me, silence me, or do whatever bad men do to witnesses.
That’s what I was now—a witness—a loose end.
Still, the threat had been made, and I would be foolish to ignore it.
Once I was able, I would find them myself.
There was no doubt about that. Until then, I’d keep my head down.
After I portioned out my share of the tips and tucked them inside my sock beneath my heel, I ducked into the back alley.
I realized that alleys were both my worst nightmare and my best option as low-visibility passageways.
Even though my heart pounded every time I felt the brick walls close in, there was a sense of safety there.
Mostly, I could time it so they were empty.
Surface roads in Queens felt too exposed.
Somehow, my brain kept telling me they were riskier than the enclosed alleyways where there seemed to be fewer eyes on me and no cameras.
My resources were pitiful to say the least, and my attackers had seemed to be on the opposite spectrum.
On my Negative Nancy days, my inner voice said that they had ways to track me through cameras or some digital footprint that I was leaving unknowingly.
To be honest, the things I knew about getting “off-grid” could fill a thimble.
Today, I was determined not to be that girl, so I would keep it positive, even though doing so was harder than ever.
I glanced over my shoulder before hurrying along, dodging puddles and trash.
These days, there was a method to my madness or paranoia; I hadn’t decided which it was.
I took a different route every day, if possible, and kept things unpredictable.
There was always a sense that I was being watched, and by now, I couldn’t even trust myself to know if I was being followed, so I just assumed I was.
I made sure to keep my head covered and ducked into doorways now and then to look back and check.
So far, I hadn’t caught anyone watching me, but I was always worried that someone would catch up to me before I was ready.
The lesson that I needed to be prepared to protect myself had been taught to me brutally and efficiently.
Right now, a small knife was tucked in my hand.
It was pitiful protection, but if it happened again, I swore I’d go down swinging.