Kim
I read it twice. Three times. The words rearranged themselves into different configurations, none of them good.
No Dani. No backup. No plan.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall. The paint was peeling in the corner near the ceiling, a crack I'd been meaning to patch for six months. The radiator clanked and hissed, fighting against the February cold seeping through the old windows.
In the next room, Zoe was still asleep. I could picture her without looking: small body curled around her stuffed elephant, dark hair fanned across the pillow, face slack.
My mind started running the calculations. I couldn't call in sick. I'd already missed two days this month when Zoe had that stomach bug. I'd sat on the bathroom floor with her, rubbing her back, watching my job security circle the drain with every hour I wasn't at my desk.
One more absence and I was done. I knew how this worked. I'd seen it happen to other women like me, women with kids and no safety net and no margin for error. One emergency too many, and suddenly you were unemployable.
The emergency daycare center I'd used once, in desperation, charged forty dollars an hour. I didn't have forty dollars an hour. I barely had forty dollars, period, after rent, utilities, and the grocery bill that kept climbing no matter how carefully I budgeted.
I could call someone. Ask for help. But who?
That was the thing about aging out of foster care.
You didn't have a network. No parents to call in a crisis, no siblings to swap favors with, no aunts or uncles or family friends who'd known you since you were small.
You had whatever you'd managed to build for yourself, and I hadn't managed to build much.
After Cole, I'd stopped trying. Pulled in like a turtle retreating into its shell. It was easier to rely on no one than to trust someone and watch them disappear when things got hard.
Dani was the exception. She had shown up at my door two years ago with a casserole and a philosophy that single mothers looked after each other.
I sat there for a long moment, phone in hand, options dwindling to nothing.
If I didn't go to work, I’d lose my job. If I lost my job, I couldn't pay rent. If I couldn't pay rent, we were on the street.
I'd been on the street before. Once, when I was seventeen and had just aged out of the system, when I'd had nowhere to go and no one to call and had spent three nights sleeping in a bus station before a shelter had space.
I remembered the smell of it. The fear. The way people looked through you like you weren't there.
I would not let Zoe experience that.
Which left one option. One terrible, risky, potentially career-ending option.
Zoe would have to come with me.
I'd hide her in the break room. Keep her quiet. Pray that Xavier didn't notice, that no one noticed, that I could make it through one day without my carefully constructed life collapsing around me.
It was insane. It was also the only choice I had. I took a breath, stood up, and walked to Zoe's room. She was still asleep. I knelt beside her bed and brushed the hair from her forehead.
"Zoe. Baby. Time to wake up."
Her dark eyes fluttered open. She blinked at me, confused, still half in whatever dream she'd been having.
"Mommy?"
"Hey, sweetheart. Guess what? Today is a special day."
She rubbed her eyes. "Special how?"
"You get to come on a secret mission with Mommy."
Her whole face changed. The sleepiness vanished, replaced by wide-eyed excitement. She sat up so fast she nearly knocked heads with me.
"A secret mission? Like a spy?"
"Exactly like a spy." I smiled, and it only felt a little bit like lying. "But spies have to be very, very quiet. Can you do that?"
She nodded vigorously. "I can be quiet. I'm the quietest."
"I know you are, baby."
"Will there be snacks?"
"All the snacks you want."
She threw her arms around my neck. "This is the best day ever!"
We packed a bag together. Coloring books, the ones with the princesses and the ones with the dinosaurs, because she couldn't decide.
Crayons, the big box with the sharpener built into the back.
Headphones, the pink ones with the cat ears.
Her favorite blanket, the soft purple one she'd had since she was a baby.
Snacks: crackers and cheese sticks, apple slices, and the cookies I'd baked last weekend, enough to survive a siege.
Zoe’s job was to supervise the packing. "We need more cookies, Mommy."
"We have six cookies."
"But what if I get really hungry?"
I added two more cookies. She nodded with satisfaction.
The drive to work was nerve-wracking. I kept glancing at my phone, half-expecting another disaster.
A text from work saying I'd been fired preemptively.
A call from the school saying there actually was school today, and I'd missed it.
Something, anything, to make this day even worse than it already was.
Zoe pressed her face to the window and counted things. "One bus. Two buses. That's a really big truck, Mommy. Do you think it has dinosaurs inside?"
"Could be. You never know."
"I bet it does. I bet it's full of dinosaurs and they're going to the zoo."
I let her chatter wash over me, focusing on the traffic, on the route, on not falling apart before we even got there.
We arrived at Dubois Industries early, before most employees. The lobby was quiet, just the security guard at his desk and the distant hum of the building waking up.
I signed Zoe in as a visitor, explaining to the guard that she was my daughter, that I'd had a childcare emergency, and that she'd only be here for the day. He looked at me with something that might have been sympathy and waved us through.
The elevator ride felt endless. Zoe bounced on her toes, excited by the buttons, by the numbers climbing, by the whole adventure of it.
"Are we going to the top, Mommy?"
"Almost. The twenty-seventh floor."
"That's so high. Can we see the whole city?"
"You'll see."
The executive floor was empty when we stepped off the elevator. No assistants at their desks, no executives in their offices, just silence and expensive carpet and the faint smell of coffee from the break room.
Perfect.
I led Zoe down the hall, checking around each corner, feeling like a criminal sneaking through a heist movie. The break room was at the end of the corridor, a decent-sized space with a kitchenette, a few tables, and a couch in the corner that was mostly hidden from the door.
"This is spy headquarters," I told Zoe, keeping my voice low. "This is where you'll wait while Mommy does her mission."
Her eyes went wide. "It's perfect."
I set her up. Coloring books were spread on the coffee table, arranged so she could reach everything without getting up.
Tablet propped against a stack of napkins, headphones plugged in and ready.
Snacks lined up in order of preference: cookies first, because she'd earned them, then crackers, then fruit.
Blanket draped over the couch cushions, making a little nest.
Zoe settled into her spot and looked up at me, waiting for instructions.
I knelt down so we were eye to eye. "Okay, baby. This is very important. You need to stay here. Don't come out unless Mommy comes to get you. No matter what. Can you do that?"
She nodded. "No matter what."
"If anyone comes in, just stay quiet. You're invisible. You're the best spy in the whole world, and no one can see you."
"I'm invisible," she repeated. I kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair, and turned to leave.
At the door, I looked back. She was already reaching for her coloring book, settling into her mission.
I took a breath, walked to my desk, and tried to act normal.
The morning was torture.
Every footstep in the hallway made my pulse spike. Every voice raised in conversation sounded like someone discovering my daughter. I flinched at closing doors, at ringing phones, at the distant ding of the elevator arriving on our floor.
I checked on Zoe every thirty minutes, inventing excuses to walk past the break room.
First trip: I needed to refill my water bottle. I took the long way, the one that passed the break room door. A quick glance inside. Zoe was coloring, tongue poking out in concentration, completely absorbed. She looked up when she saw me and waved. I waved back and kept walking.
"Getting more water?" Margaret appeared at my elbow, coffee mug in hand. "You must be thirsty today."
"Staying hydrated," I said, and smiled, hoping she couldn't hear my heart hammering against my ribs.
Second trip: I needed a file from the storage closet, which happened to be near the break room. Another glance. Zoe had moved on to her tablet, headphones clamped over her ears, watching something that made her giggle silently. She didn't see me this time. I didn't wave.
Third trip: Bathroom. The one near the break room, not the closer one by my desk. I ducked inside just long enough to see Zoe eating crackers and looking out the window, content, calm, completely unaware that her mother was slowly losing her mind.
At 9:30, Xavier arrived.
He looked like he'd slept maybe four hours, with dark circles under his eyes and hair even more disheveled than usual. But somehow he still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover. Life wasn't fair that way.
He nodded at me as he passed. "Kim. What's on the schedule?"
"You have a video call at 10:30 with the investors from Titan Ventures. The conference room is booked. I've prepared the files you might need and sent the agenda to your email."
He nodded. "Right. Thanks." He disappeared into his office.
I let out a deep breath. Everything was fine. At 10:15, I reminded him about the call. He emerged from his office with his jacket on, tie straightened—for once—and followed me to the conference room.
I'd prepared everything. Checked the video system twice, made sure the connection was stable, and arranged the files in order of likely relevance. Water pitcher, glass, pen, notepad. Everything was perfect. Everything was under control.