Chapter 7
Four Days Later
I couldn’t come earlier as planned. A series of unforeseen events forced me to work from home.
Besides that, my father’s health required more attention, and Nina was still feeling sick because of her teething.
The babysitter who usually stays with her at my mother’s house was absent.
It’s not easy to find someone trustworthy or to replace an employee to take care of my most precious possession, so my plans to get Olívia out of the dump where she works had to wait.
While the driver parks in front of the rundown café, I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing, even though I’m not acting with the prudence that usually guides me.
When you grow up with the number of responsibilities I did, you need to calculate every step, as your family depends on your decisions to avoid trouble.
That’s how I intended to handle my relationship with Olívia too.
The only problem is that I couldn’t stop thinking about her having to go back home to this neighborhood at night.
So, instead of waiting to get to know her a little better before getting so close, I decided to take action.
Part of me says that she has managed well so far without any help, but the other part, the one accustomed to taking care of my responsibilities, screams that I get her out of this neighborhood.
“Do you want me to wait for you here, Mr. Guillermo?”
“Stop that.” I don’t usually ask for a driver, because I like to drive myself, but when I do, I request Simon.
He has been working for my mother for thirty years, which means he knew me when I was five years old.
I’ve told him a thousand times that I don’t want him to call me “Mr.” or “sir,” but he doesn’t care about what I want.
Simon just does what he wants and is as formal as an English butler—which goes completely against the grain of my family.
“I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your first name.”
“For God’s sake, you used to take me to the playground. Why do you keep insisting on using titles with me?”
He doesn’t respond, and I’m sure that when we speak next time, he will use “Mr.” again. For now, I give up our little battle.
“I don’t think I’ll be long, but you can take a drive if you want. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
I get out of the car and sigh, once again annoyed by her working here.
I still can’t believe that even knowing who she was, Layla allowed the girl to continue living a life of sacrifice. This is just further proof of how selfish and self-centered my late wife was.
I notice people staring at me as I walk along the sidewalk, and I recall Olívia’s observations from when I came here the previous week. She has a somewhat twisted sense of humor, but I can’t deny that, even against my will, her quips amused me.
When I open the door, a kind of shrill bell rings, and a waitress with red hair stares at me. The woman looks tired, as if she has seen enough of the world and what she’s seen so far hasn’t pleased her.
“Good morning, sir. You can choose a table,” she says, though her gaze betrays the same disbelief I saw in Olívia’s the first time I was here.
I am momentarily unsure how to act, because it took me only a few seconds to realize that the person I am looking for is not in the establishment.
“I’d like to speak with Olívia,” I finally say.
She drops the dishcloth she was using to dry a glass, and her eyes widen in surprise. “Olívia? Are you sure?” she asks, skepticism evident in her tone.
I hold back my irritation because I need her to provide the information I desire. “Yes. She’s not here at the moment, as far as I can tell. Is it her day off?”
“Olívia no longer works here. She got fired.”
How could she not work here anymore? It’s only been a few days since we last spoke.
“Where can I find her?”
“Was it Thomas who sent you? Are you from the police?” Her distrustful look and the conflicting information bring two certainties to me instantly: she’s protective of Olívia, and this Thomas fellow has something to do with her losing her job.
“I’m not from the police. Just a regular customer. What happened?”
She shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and almost imperceptibly glances behind her. I follow the same path and notice a surveillance camera typical in commercial establishments.
The woman is probably afraid someone might overhear our conversation.
“You can tell me.”
“The manager fired her,” she says, her tone lower than before. “It’s been a few days already.”
“Why?”
“He accused her of stealing money from the register. I wasn’t here, but I overheard some customers talking about it.”
“Do you think the accusation has any merit?” My intuition tells me it doesn’t. From everything I know about her so far, Olívia seems like a good girl, but I need to be sure.
“No way. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, he lied.”
“Where can I find her?” I repeat my earlier question.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to help her. If you care about her, you should tell me how I can find her. Maybe I can get her a new job.”
“What kind of job?”
As much as it annoys me to be questioned, I can’t help but admire the woman’s loyalty. “Something similar to what she did here,” I respond to reassure her because she’s entirely transparent. I can see in her face exactly what she was thinking about the kind of job I had to offer.
Finally, she seems convinced, and after grabbing a piece of paper near the cash register, she takes a pen from her apron pocket and draws something. “I don’t know the building number, but it’s very close by. I’ve drawn a map of how you can get there.”
“Thank you.”
I thought the place she worked was dangerous, but nothing compares to the building she lives in. There’s nothing arrogant in my judgment; it’s just a matter of fact.
The area must be eerie at night, and I wonder about that tiny person walking these dark streets in the dead of night.
How long has she been living here? Since her mother passed away? These details weren’t in the report.
A huge sense of unease washes over me.
Of course, I’m aware of social disparities, but this place is a step beyond just lacking security.
The entire facade of the building is peeling, and some windowpanes are broken and patched up with silver duct tape.
There’s an old man who must be at least two hundred years old, dressed in what appears to be several coats layered on top of each other, as the thinness of his face doesn’t match the volume of his body.
A small pot, a teddy bear, a flashlight, and various other items are attached to his clothing. It’s as if he’s a walking thrift store. He smokes and gazes at the street with boredom, and a skinny stray dog lies at his feet.
He’s right at the entrance of the building, and as I approach, he stares at me, though he still seems detached. “A little help for an old, tired man, sir?”
“Do you know a girl who lives in this building? She has long hair and very fair skin.”
“Are you talking about Snow White? Olívia. The ray of sunshine.”
Once again, I confirm what I had quickly noticed on the first day I saw her, as well as in the interaction I had with the girl: Olívia leaves a trail of admirers wherever she goes. “That’s her.”
“And what do I get in return? It’s valuable information you’re asking for.”
More irritated than I usually am, I pull out my wallet and take out a hundred-dollar bill. Instead of handing it over, though, I just wave it in front of his face. “Don’t play games with me,” I warn as I begin to climb the stairs of the building.
“Yes, sir,” he responds, suddenly seeming awake. “But if you want to find the girl, it’s not inside the building you’ll find her, but over there.” He points to a staircase cluttered with boxes, seeming to lead toward the basement of someplace, right where I noticed the broken windows.
I try not to show shock, but I think I fail miserably because after taking the hundred-dollar bill from my hand, he shrugs.
“Boston is an expensive city.”
I don’t answer, already starting to descend the stairs.
Despite the foul odor and the appearance of a horror movie set, I notice there isn’t a single piece of paper on the ground.
The cleanliness of the place contrasts starkly with the smell and air of abandonment.
When I finally stand in front of a door with bits of wood peeling off and as secure as a child’s piggy bank, I hesitate before knocking.