4. Emma
Chapter Four
EMMA
T he Stop Requested button on the bus must have been malfunctioning because the sign didn’t go on and the driver blew past her stop by several blocks. It would have been fine except for the fact San Diego was experiencing a rare day of torrential rain.
Emma had marginal success staying dry, darting from awning to tree cover, hugging buildings to take advantage of that small space around them that was spared the rain.
She was across the street from her apartment building when a Tesla flew past to turn the corner, sending up a huge spray of dirty puddle water all over her cream-colored tights.
Swearing, she shook out the water that had run into her shoes and trudged up the steps to the third floor, bypassing the elevator to avoid the landlord, who had been on the rampage for the last week.
And with good reason she thought, her stomach dropping as she opened the door and it caught halfway.
“Oh God,” she muttered squeezing inside as a stack of old magazines threatened to topple over on her.
Emma dripped on the doormat, wiping her feet and looking around in dismay. Pedro was rearranging again.
When Emma had moved to town, she had been grateful to have a cheap place she could stay in while working her minimum wage job. Her mother had been doubly grateful she’d be living with family, an older male cousin who could keep an eye on her as she got back on her feet after the accident.
But her mother hadn’t seen her brother’s only son in years. And she certainly hadn’t visited him before Emma moved in to share his crowded two-bedroom apartment.
Pedro was a hoarder.
That wasn’t an official diagnosis. Also, according to the stricter definitions Emma had read online, it wasn’t entirely accurate. But Emma knew that’s what this was.
The nine-hundred-square-foot apartment should have been spacious. Pedro’s furniture was modern and in good shape. Except she didn’t get to appreciate it because it was always covered in stuff.
Junk mail fliers joined piles of kitchen supplies still sealed in their original packages. These would be stacked next to brand-new paperbacks whose spines had never been cracked. There was a corner reserved exclusively for outdated computer equipment.
“This will all be valuable someday,” Pedro had insisted, adding a pink plastic apple computer to a carefully constructed tower. He pushed aside a crowded clothing rack on wheels to make room.
Many of those items were new, the tags still attached, but nonsensical for San Diego, like the heavy parka rated for subzero weather. Add that to the sports equipment he never used and what she called the promotional pile: objects like frisbees, mouse pads, tote bags, and more, all branded with the names of local businesses—things most people gleefully took but rarely used.
Her cousin’s collection material of choice were periodicals. Magazines mostly, but the Union-Tribune newspaper was a close second. It would have been first, but she had convinced him to give up his paper subscription in favor of the cheaper online one. At the same time, a few of his favorite magazines had folded.
Emma was convinced the death of print journalism was the only reason her cousin hadn’t been buried under his possessions.
He can’t help it, she reminded herself .
Something happened to Pedro’s brain every time he came into possession of a new object. According to her research, had she stuffed him in an MRI machine and handed him a pen, something in his gray matter would light up like a lightbulb as the pen went from a random object to a precious personal possession.
Maybe it was chemical. Or perhaps there were lesions in his brain as one research paper indicated.
She didn’t know. Emma only knew that trying to take something of Pedro’s hurt him on an almost physical level. That was why she always checked before she threw anything away.
Pedro still spoke of the time his mother had come and cleaned this place out, throwing away every old newspaper and recycling his magazines. He described it the way another person would describe a death in the family.
To him, it was the same thing.
“Emma.” Pedro emerged from his bedroom, flushed but neatly dressed in a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants. If you passed him on the street, you never would have guessed that his apartment would look like this.
“You’re home already!” he said a touch too brightly.
She knew the signs. Pedro was annoyed. He usually moved his hoard around while she was at work.
“I’m late actually.”
And wet but he hadn’t seemed to notice that, so she didn’t mention it.
“Are you rearranging?” she asked, stating the obvious. Her bedroom door was blocked by several large Tupperware containers stuffed full of miscellaneous, yet irreplaceable things.
He held up a finger. “I just need one more hour and it will be as good as new.”
“Uh-huh.”
Pedro bit his lip and winced, looking away. “I got your favorite Italian sausage pasta from the Pizzaz.”
Emma put her hand over her heart, tearing up. “You did?”
He gestured to the kitchen table, hidden by the pile of paperbacks stacked on the table behind the couch.
Thanking him, she stripped off her shoes and wet socks, leaving them at the door. He came to the table a little later—after clearing the path to her room.
“How was your day?” he asked.
Emma told him about the kitten. “I’ve got to get him out of the garage.”
“Try food,” he suggested. “It’ll be hungry.”
“I will,” she said, not giving her weird trip to the top floor another thought. “I have a plan for tomorrow.”
The next day Emma clocked out early. The cat was right where he’d been the day before.
She crouched down behind the red Ferrari, cooing with all her might.
“C’mon, sweetie,” she said, dangling the piece of turkey she’d peeled off her day-old discount sandwich. “I know you’d rather this be ham but beggars can’t be choosers.”
Apparently, beggars could be picky as hell because the kitten didn’t budge. To make matters worse, the only thing she could see under the low-slung sports car were tiny cat paws. She would have had to lay flat on the dirty concrete to get a better look.
Why couldn’t the little guy have chosen to hide under one of the Range Rovers?
At least the kitten was under one of the cars that didn’t move during the day. This Ferrari was always parked in this spot when she arrived at six in the morning and would be here when she left at five.
She had been convinced the owner left it here all week. Parking was at a premium downtown. But ever since she’d discovered the kitten, she’d finally seen the vehicle’s small shifts in position relative to the yellow lines, confirming that the owner did move it every day.
Emma winced as the sound of an engine roaring to life was followed by tires squealing at a high pitch.
The damn suits in the building were always doing that—peeling out of the garage like their butts were on fire. Seriously, they were going to hit someone someday.
And that somebody would be her unless she started going the long way around to the back of the building. Because, of course, his highness Mr. Chapman didn’t want the café staff coming in the front doors of the complex. Building rules.
“Did you hear that?” she asked the kitten as another engine started, the post-five o’clock exodus well underway. “It’s not safe to stay here or one of those jerks in a suit is going to squish you.”
She couldn’t let that happen to this sweet baby, no matter how difficult it would be trying to keep a pet at Pedro’s apartment. How would she get the little one to use a litter box when the apartment was full of nooks and crannies only a cat could access?
“You know it’s probably a rat you’ve been hearing,” Bethany said over her shoulder.
Startled, Emma looked up.
Bethany rocked on her heels. “Not to mention the fact a pet is a spectacularly bad idea—you can barely take care of yourself.”
Emma scowled at the unasked-for reminder.
“Shouldn’t you be wiping down the tables inside?” Emma had done them all after breakfast and lunch to get the other woman to agree to close the café.
Bethany lifted a shoulder. “Fine. Get rabies,” she said before wiping her hands on her apron and going back inside.
Emma sighed. The rest of the café staff either didn’t believe there was a kitten or they didn’t care, too wrapped up in their own problems. Rent. Bills. Boyfriends. Girlfriends.
Kyle had a beta fish, but that was it on the pet front. Even her boss Hector was pet-free because he was allergic to anything with fur.
Which means saving the kitten is up to you. Emma had scouted the entire garage and the immediate streets around it. There wasn’t a mama cat. The little guy wasn’t part of a litter. What was it surviving on?
Scratch that. She didn’t want to know.
Sighing, Emma scooted closer, careful not to let the knees of her beige tights touch the dirty concrete floor. They were part of her uniform and she really needed six to get through the week, but so far had only been able to afford four. She washed them in the sink on Wednesday to cover the entire week.
One of the few blessings of Ernesto’s condition was that his closet was always full of cleaning supplies. She’d also gotten paid today. Once she paid her share of rent and utilities, she’d take whatever she had left to the nearest discount grocery store to buy cat food and a bag of litter.
Unless Pedro already has litter in the apartment? It was entirely possible.
The kitten meowed again.
“Here, little baby.” Emma pinched off a piece of the turkey and tossed it at the little paws, craning her head forward so far she got a shooting pain in her neck.
Swearing under her breath, she stood up just in time to see a wall of muscle in a suit rushing at her at full speed.
She barely had time to scream.