Chapter 16. Florian #2
"It wasn't lost! It was under my mattress!" I felt tears hot and stinging in my eyes, humiliating and unstoppable. "Please. My whole life is in there. I need my phone. I need to call..."
I stopped. Call who? Knox?
Without my phone, I couldn’t even call him. I didn't know his number by heart. I had saved it in my contacts, but I hadn't memorized it.
The realization hit me hard. I doubled over, clutching the counter.
I couldn't call him. I couldn't find him. I couldn't even go to his house. I had no idea where exactly it was.
"File a police report if you want," the man said, turning a page of his magazine. "But you ain't getting it back. Theft is common. You gotta keep your shit on you."
I walked back to Bed 42, my legs numb. I sat on the thin, plastic-covered mattress and stared at the empty space under the bed. I had been so dumb.
I felt stupid. Desperate. Small. Smaller than I had ever felt in my life.
I curled up on the cot, pulling the greasy gray blanket over my head to hide the shaking, and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to summon the image of Knox’s face, terrified that without the photo on my phone, I would start to forget him too.
The week that followed was a slow-motion descent into hell. I was hungry and dirty, and desperate.
Without my ID, I couldn't apply for day labor.
Without my phone, I couldn't check my email for the few freelance transcription gigs I sometimes snagged. I couldn’t contact Luna, not even my dad.
I was fucked. I spent my days walking the city to stay warm, wondering if I should just beg for money, standing in lines for soup kitchens where the broth tasted like salted dishwater, and returning to the shelter before curfew to guard my spot on the cot.
I lay awake, staring at the water-stained tiles of the ceiling, my arms wrapped around my chest, trying to hold myself together. I had no fucking clue about my next move, I had no one.
By Thursday, my clothes were stiff with sweat and street dirt. I had to get a change of clothes from the donation bin.
Each morning, I asked the front desk about my backpack. The answer was always a bored shrug. I stopped asking by Friday.
What the fuck would I do?! It was the question that didn't leave my fucking mind.
If I managed to get some money, maybe I could go on a computer, log into my accounts and contact Luna.
Or Knox. Knox probably thought I had ghosted him, and that made my heart ache.
Maybe my mom could send me some money. I had a distant uncle, Henry.
Maybe I could sell myself. Just once. To get some cash.
I supposed I could walk to the grocery store, where I probably lost my job already for no-call, no-shows. But I was too embarrassed.
For now, all I could do was remain in a state of sheer panic, paralyzing me.
On Friday night, I sat on the edge of my cot, my head in my hands.
I was hungry. It was a sharp, twisting pain that had settled into a dull, constant cramp.
I wondered if I should go to the library, just to sit in a chair that wasn't made of metal, but the thought of the librarian looking at my clothes pinned me in place.
Around nine, the atmosphere in the room shifted, it went alert.
I looked up. Near the entrance, the double doors were held open.
Three men stood there. They didn't belong here.
They wore suits, their postures erect and predatory.
They weren't police. They scanned the room, their gazes sweeping over the rows of cots.
One of them, a man with a precise jaw and an earpiece coiled behind his ear, started walking down the center aisle. He ignored the stares of the residents.
I shrank back against the wall, my instinct to hide flaring hot and bright. I pulled my knees to my chest. Don't look at me. Don't look at me.
The man stopped. He looked at a tablet in his hand, then looked up, his eyes locking directly onto mine. Of course.
He tapped his earpiece. "Row G, bed 42. He's secure."
He walked toward me. I couldn't move. My muscles were locked in a paralysis of terror. Was this it? Was this because of the debts? Had Henderson called someone?
The man stopped at the foot of my cot. Up close, he smelled of mint. "Florian?"
I nodded, unable to speak.
He didn't grab me. He turned slightly, looking back toward the entrance.
The doors opened wider. And then the air in the room seemed to vanish completely.
Knox walked in.
He wore a long black wool coat over a suit that cost more than this entire building.
His face was pale, his eyes dark circles of exhaustion, but his expression was a terrifying mask of controlled fury.
He didn't look at the staff. He didn't look at the other residents.
He looked straight down the path his men had cleared, straight at me.
Our eyes met, and I saw the mask fracture.
"Florian."
I tried to stand up, but my knees were water. I swayed, my hand clutching the metal frame of the cot. I must have looked hideous, dirty, wearing ill-fitting rags, dark hollows under my eyes, hair matted. I wanted to hide. I wanted to crawl under the bed and die of shame.
But Knox was moving. He covered the distance, ignoring the staff who tried to step in his way.
He reached me just as my legs gave out.
I didn't hit the floor. His arms caught me, solid and unbreakable. He hauled me up against him, burying his face in my neck, his grip so tight it threatened to crack my ribs. He smelled of cedar and home. He smelled like safety.
"I've got you," he growled, his voice rough and shaking against my ear. "I've got you. I'm here."
The dam inside me, the one I had built out of pride and survival instinct and fear, shattered. A sob ripped its way out of my throat, raw and ugly. I clutched the lapels of his coat with filthy hands, burying my face in the wool, surrendering every ounce of my will to his strength.
"Daddy," I whispered, the word breaking into a thousand pieces. "I’m sorry I didn’t call… I’m so sorry…”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. If anything, I’m sorry for taking so long to come.”
“Daddy, please... take me home."
"I am," Knox said. "We're going home. Right now."