Chapter 3
NYAH
My weekend dragged by, filled with monotonous household chores. The silence in my apartment was deafening. I missed Lucas’ constant chatter in the background.
The modest two-bedroom apartment I called home had been mortgaged to me by Mr. Randall Evans on the strength of my last promotion.
Imagining everything it could be, I’d spruced it up with bright coats of paint and hand-picked, thrift-store furniture.
What I hadn’t realized until now was that the most important thing making it a home… was my son.
I laboured through my cleaning routine in silence, meticulously scrubbing the bathrooms, dusting shelves, mopping floors, and sanitizing the kitchen surfaces with my mix of cleaning liquid.
Before vacuuming Lucas’ room, I bent down to pick up his scattered toys and found his second favourite, Eeyore, hiding beneath the bed.
Sighing, I rose and sat on the mattress, holding the toy close.
It connected me to my son, but couldn’t fill the emotional void created by his absence.
I lay down and closed my eyes, imagining him at the summer camp.
My beautiful six-year-old son was probably playing with the other children, running around and screaming, his dark brown bob of hair bouncing in the wind.
He hadn’t been able to contain his excitement when I’d finally agreed to let him go.
Now I wondered whether it’d been a mistake; the apartment—and my life—were empty without him, and this first weekend with him away had me moping around aimlessly.
My phone buzzed. Subconsciously, I placed my hand on my chest. It was time for my pills. I tucked Eeyore into bed, then went to the medicine cabinet, shook out two tablets from the plastic vial, and swallowed them.
The next buzz on my phone heralded no better news.
It was a message on my friends’ group chat cancelling our dinner plans.
After making sure the apartment was sparkling clean, I jumped into the shower, then settled on the couch for an uneventful night reading my current book, Shantaram, and binge-watching Game of Thrones on Netflix.
That was the plan, at least, but after dozing off for an hour, I was jolted awake by a strange sound. Instantly alert, I grabbed the baseball bat I kept beside the couch and leapt to my feet, head cocked and listening intently.
Sweat trickled down my forehead.
Creeping slowly, I scanned my apartment room by room.
Nobody.
I checked the front door.
All four bolts were locked.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m safe. He hasn’t found me. Those words had become a mantra. Eight years on, my past life still haunted me. The impossibility of escaping my foster father for good was always on my mind. The repercussions of being found still terrified me.
After splashing my face with cold water, I went to my bedroom and rummaged through the closet to find a pair of pyjamas when I came across a shoebox in the far corner. I sat down on my bed and opened it.
Light bounced off the cold black pistol inside the shoebox, catching my eye even in the dimness.
I traced its outline with my fingers, the metal unyielding beneath my touch.
I had enrolled shortly after arriving in Vancouver at a shooting range and perfected my aim under a tutor.
A well-planned exit strategy was the only way to stay alive, and I had begun building mine the second I set foot in the city.
I needed to be ready, not just for myself, but for the day fear came looking for me again.
“No, no,” the tutor, a balding man in his late sixties, had yelled. “Feet, shoulder-width apart.” He had bent down and spread my feet to the right distance. “Left foot slightly forward and right foot slightly backwards.”
His words had lodged themselves in my memory.
Three weeks later, on the black market, I had bought a gun.
It was a precaution—albeit a drastic one—taken only to assure my safety. And Lucas’, of course. I checked the safety and confirmed the magazine was separate from the chamber.
My fingers trembled as I pulled it out.
A similar piece was once held to my temple. Shaking my head vigorously, I placed it back into the shoebox and returned it to the closet.
With the baseball bat close to my bed, I drifted off to sleep, ready to take on the following week.
Summer mornings were the city’s best-kept secret, and I arrived at work on Monday to a particularly fine example. In mid-July, no less. I still missed Lucas, but I’d put the lonely weekend behind me and looked forward to a productive week ahead.
My assistant, Amy, had once again beaten me to the office and greeted me at the door with a coffee and an air hug. “Morning, babe. You look gorgeous, as usual.”
I sipped the coffee. French Vanilla—a guilty pleasure. “No thanks to you. I can feel this going straight past my stomach onto my butt.”
Amy laughed. “When you stop drinking them, I’ll stop getting them.”
I’d tried coming in earlier to return the favour, but Amy retaliated by coming in earlier still.
The inevitable conclusion of that war would be both of us arriving before the barista, and then everybody would lose.
I took the high road and opened an account with the coffee shop.
Amy, to her credit, used it—but only for one coffee. I accepted the defeat with honour.
Amy walked me through to my office, whispering, “Mr. Evans is in.”
I noted the closed door to the normally vacant VP’s office next to mine.
Randall, the owner, had hand-picked me out of a waitressing job like one of those Movie Producer Discovers Starlet stories.
I’d chased him down the street after discovering he’d been overcharged a hundred dollars for lunch.
He’d followed me back to the restaurant, smiling with what looked like fatherly pride as I apologized and reversed the charge on his credit card.
When I was done, he’d placed a hundred dollars cash in the shared tip jar and, after seeking my permission, dropped another hundred into the pocket of my apron along with a business card.
“My dear,” he’d told me, “I don’t know what you’re destined for, but I know it is more than waitressing.
Come work for me, and I guarantee I will get you there. ”
I’d risen through the hotel from the front desk to shift supervisor, then a management position in Guest Services, and finally to my current role as GM. Randall was fond of telling me I still wasn’t there yet—wherever there was.
Settling in behind my desk, I looked up at Amy. “Do you know what he wants?” I asked, lowering my voice in case it carried through the thin office walls.
“I think he’s just in for a meeting,” Amy said, copying my tone. “There’s a fella in there with him. He’s a little easy on the eye if you know what I’m saying.”
I stifled a laugh. “Not that you were looking, right?”
Amy made a show of looking affronted. “Why, Nyah, it’s my job to look. I’m Mr. Evans’ PA as well when he’s in. What if he wanted to call me in to take a memo or place a call, or I dunno, sit in his friend’s lap?”
“Well, I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of such important work. Buzz my phone, though, if it looks like they’re getting up to leave.”
Amy backed out of my doorway, nodding and adjusting her elegant, gold-rimmed glasses. “Keep watching—will do, boss.”
At that exact moment, the door to the VP’s office opened. Amy turned as she walked away and offered me a pantomimed Here they come expression.
Randall entered alone. “Nyah, dear, that was you coming in.” He strode over and hugged me.
I gave him a brief one-armed hug. “How long has it been—a month?”
“Three,” he said, stepping back but gripping my hand in both of his for a second. “That’s how long it’s taken to close the deal on the Kowloon site.” He took the seat opposite my desk and gestured for me to sit as well. “How was your weekend? Filled with laughter from your young man, I hope.”
“A little lonely, as a matter of fact,” I said, succumbing to a rare bout of openness. “Lucas is off at summer camp for a month and a half.”
“I wish I’d known,” Randall said, his bushy grey eyebrows rising. “You could have come to the mansion and treated it like a spa weekend. Perhaps next week?”
I looked down at my desk, embarrassed by the offer. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I have so much… catching up to do.”
The Evans family’s wealth overwhelmed me.
The hundred-dollar tip on the day I met Randall had seemed exorbitant at the time, but now I realized that was loose change to a man like him.
And so was a weekend of hospitality at the hands of his household staff.
My Fair Lady was a hoax; people from their respective social circles could never be comfortable rubbing shoulders.
“Anyway,” I said, changing the subject, “what brings you to the hotel this morning?”
“A surprise,” Randall said, holding up a finger. “And a favour.”
“I sense they’re related.”
“Your senses, my dear, are finely tuned as always.” He pushed himself to his feet, and I followed suit. “I have appointed a new Vice President of Operations.”
“That is a surprise.” Not exactly a welcome one, either. It meant I would no longer report straight through to the board of directors.
Randall held up a hand before I could respond further. “Don’t worry, it’s only temporary. I need you to break him in for me—show him the ropes, if you will. Then, when he’s ready, we’ll take him on at Headquarters, and he’ll be out of your hair.”
“And that’s the favour,” I said. “He’s new to hospitality, I take it.”
Randall smiled warmly. “You’re an astute young woman, Nyah. But I knew that the day I met you.” He motioned for me to accompany him.
“May I ask, sir,” I said, touching his arm to stop him before we stepped out of my office, “why didn’t you choose somebody…?” I paused, realizing that whatever I said would sound like I wanted the job myself. Which, of course, I did.
“More qualified?”
“I’m sure you had many good candidates.” If he’d advertised the role, I hadn’t known about it. This reeked of cronyism, unfortunately. The guy was undoubtedly from Randall’s country club. Probably a tennis coach or a gardener.
Randall placed a calming hand on my arm. “Nyah, I’m going to ask your indulgence. Just for a month or two. I take a close interest in your career—I always have—and I hope I’ve earned your trust.”
I sighed, mentally chastising myself. “Of course, sir.”
Randall promoted on merit, and I knew it. When I was ready for my next role, he would tell me.
“Perhaps you should meet him. Then all will become clear.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” Even if the guy was a gardener, I would find a way to get the best out of him. How hard could it be?
Randall led me out and tapped on the neighbouring door. “I left him making a phone call,” he explained, turning the handle. “Just tying up some loose ends on his old position.”
A voice came through the crack in the door.
“Look, Marcel, I have to go, but I’m telling you, Paramount has just signed an outdoor filming contract with the city.
You need to find out who’s producing, get the cast list, and get them the hell into the club.
” There was a frustrated response on the other end of the call, then the man signed off.
“Fine. I’ll call if I hear anything else. ”
Randall pushed the door open.
The other man was sitting in the guest chair, his back to the door. “I just need to send a…” he said, standing but keeping his head down as he tapped something into his phone. “And… done.” He thumbed it off and looked up. “Hi, Dad. Sorry about that.”
Then he looked at me and gave me a thousand-watt smile, extending his hand.
“Hi, Nyah. We haven’t been introduced. Caleb Evans.”