Chapter 4 #3
Unnoticed by the group, I remained on the stairs, watching as my usually reserved staff laughed and asked questions. Even Tamika, who guarded her personal boundaries, was smiling.
My attempt to isolate Aven had backfired. I’d given her the basement to push her away, yet she created community in what had been the most neglected space in the building. I couldn’t help but respect her resilience and ability to transform adversity into opportunity.
This was the Aven I remembered, the girl who made friends anywhere, who approached life with creativity instead of complaint. It was what had drawn me to her all those years ago before life, choices, and secrets pulled us in different directions.
As she refilled Martinez’s mug while laughing at something he said, I realized relegating Aven to the basement hadn’t punished her at all. Instead, I’d unknowingly given her a blank canvas.
I retreated up the stairs before anyone saw me, unsure whether to be annoyed or impressed by the impromptu social hub developing in my basement. One thing was for sure — this was not the outcome I’d expected when I’d assigned Aven Compton to the archives. Not at all.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the hallway windows as I made my final rounds before the team meeting.
The Westridge files were finally complete, ready for today’s deadline, and the office had settled into a focused quiet that came in the hour before closing.
I was heading back to my office when I passed the basement door left slightly ajar as it had been all day.
I hadn’t intended to stop. I had, in fact, made a mental note to keep my distance after witnessing the coffee club gathering earlier.
Still, the sound of rapid Spanish made me pause, my hand already reaching for the doorknob before my brain registered the decision to enter.
I hesitated, listening. Aven’s voice drifted up the stairwell, her Spanish fluid but edged with tension.
My own grasp of the language was decent enough from years of working with Martinez and our Latino clients, sufficient to understand the gist of what she was saying.
Words like “pago” (payment), “extensión” (extension), and “por favor” (please) painted a clear picture even before I caught it in her strained voice.
“Entiendo, pero necesito más tiempo,” she said. I understood, but I need more time. “La tarjeta fue una emergencia cuando me robaron en Brasil.” The card was an emergency when I was robbed in Brazil.
I moved closer to the door. There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath that sounded almost like pain. “Treinta por ciento? Impossible. No tengo tanto.” Thirty percent? Impossible. I don’t have that much.
I eased down the first few steps, careful to avoid the ones that creaked.
From this vantage point, I saw Aven without being seen.
She sat at her desk, back to the stairs, one hand clutching her phone while the other pressed against her forehead.
The yellow dress that was so vibrant this morning now looked sad against the defeated slump of her shoulders.
“Por favor,” she said again, her words heavy with desperation. I need a plan I can afford.
Aven’s head dropped, and her hand moved to cover her eyes in unmistakable distress.
“Entiendo. Gracias por su tiempo.” I understood. Thank you for your time. The formal politeness couldn’t hide the defeat in her voice as she ended the call. After hanging up, she didn’t move.
I headed silently up the stairs, my heart heavy for Aven’s financial struggles.
I’d assumed her return to town was another whim, but the desperation in her voice as she negotiated with the credit card company suggested she was struggling to keep her head above water.
And I’d done nothing but make it harder for her since she’d walked back into my life.
The realization hit me hard during the final review of the Westridge files. She’d helped me once at considerable risk to her own reputation. And how had I repaid the debt? By sticking her in a basement and hoping she’d quit.
Before talking myself out of it, I stood and walked to the office safe hidden behind the vintage advertisement for Smith impulsive generosity wasn’t part of the careful control I’d built my life around.
And yet, the memory of Aven saying “I don’t have that much” in a voice stripped of its usual confidence overrode my hesitation.
I grabbed a sticky note from the pad on my desk, considering what to write. A formal note would be awkward, a personal one too revealing. In order to justify it, I settled on five words. For the coffee maker. Management.
It was professional enough to maintain distance and vague enough she might think it came from general company funds rather than my personal cash.
The coffee maker was a reasonable pretext.
She had, after all, significantly improved the office beverage situation.
No one could question the business logic of supporting that initiative.
I sealed the envelope, wrote “Aven” on the front, and made my way down to the basement.
The security cameras covered most of the building, but I’d left the archive room off the system.
There was no point in monitoring a space that had, until yesterday, been essentially abandoned.
This meant I could leave the envelope without creating a record of my uncharacteristic behavior.
The basement felt different in the evening stillness, the absence of Aven’s energy leaving it somewhere between the neglected storage room it had been and the vibrant space she’d created.
I placed the envelope in the center of her desk, propped against the computer monitor where she’d see it first thing tomorrow.
I let my hand rest on the surface of the desk, feeling oddly connected to her through this piece of furniture she’d salvaged from storage.
“What the fuck are you doing, Black?” I hissed under my breath, shaking my head.
Still, I couldn’t deny the lightness in my chest. By this small act of reparation, I’d begun to address a debt that had weighed me down for longer than I cared to admit. Not just the debt from that day in the sheriff’s office but the debt of how I’d treated her since she’d returned.
Outside, the summer evening had settled into a more bearable temperature between the heat of day and the cool of night.
I locked the building and headed to my car, the last one in the lot.
Tomorrow would bring questions about where the money came from, but for now, I allowed myself to acknowledge some debts could never be repaid, but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t try.