9. The Last Stop #2
Silas twisted his shoulders and slid out from beneath the sink. He stood up, looming over the glass case. He pulled a rough, oil-stained rag from his back pocket and scrubbed his knuckles. The copper pipe had finally stopped dripping onto the linoleum.
“That stops the leak.” Silas tossed the dirty rag onto the counter near the cash drawer.
“Thank you, Silas,” Gemma said, gesturing toward me. “This is our new hire. She just walked in off the street.”
He gave a gruff nod, glancing at my suitcase before grabbing his toolbox. “If she needs a place to stay, the fourth floor in my building is empty. Have her come see me after the rush.”
I tugged at the zipper of my purse. It stuck halfway, catching on a frayed thread near the seam.
I forced it open, digging past the bottle of prenatal vitamins to reach my wallet.
A bitter winter draft swept up the narrow stairwell, biting at my flushed cheeks.
My calves still burned from climbing the three flights of stairs, and a deep stiffness settled into my lower back.
I pulled out the stack of pawn-shop cash and flattened the crumpled bills against my palm.
My fingers were stiff from the freezing air.
I fumbled with the soft, worn edges of the paper, peeling the twenties and fifties apart.
The money didn’t add up to the required total.
I counted the bills a second time, pressing the cash against my coat to keep my hands steady.
Silas stood a few feet away on the landing, watching my hands. He smelled faintly of sawdust and engine grease, a sharp contrast to the stale air of the dim hallway. He crossed his arms, his boots planted on the floorboards.
“You don’t have it,” Silas said.
I stopped shuffling the bills. “I have the first month of rent, and half of the deposit.”
“Half a deposit doesn’t cover the boiler tax, Wren,” he replied. “I keep the deadbolts solid and the heat running, but I don’t run a charity out of this building.”
I did not lower my eyes. I folded the money in half and slid it back into my wallet. I dropped it into my purse and snapped the clasp shut. I braced myself against the draft, refusing to shrink away from the towering man.
Asking for a handout defeated the purpose of walking away from the Kensington estate.
Taking an unpaid favor meant handing control right back to a man who could hold it over my head.
I needed to build a life for my daughter that no one could take away.
I was going to pay my own way, no matter what it took.
“I can’t afford the full deposit today, but I will do the deep-cleaning and wash dishes for Gemma every night to cover the difference. She can pay you directly from my wages.”
Silas rested his hand against his tool belt. He looked down at the hem of my coat, his gaze pausing on my stomach. The silence stretched down the hallway. He watched my posture, weighing the quiet resolve in my voice without dismissing my offer.
Cassian would have laughed at the idea of his wife scrubbing grease traps to pay a utility bill.
My husband viewed physical labor as a consequence for the uneducated.
Silas weighed the practical terms of the trade.
He did not offer me an empty platitude, and he did not tell me I was too fragile to work a double shift.
“Gemma vouched for you, and I respect anybody willing to scrub floors to keep a roof over their kid’s head. The room is yours, Wren.”
He reached into his pocket. The keys scraped against the canvas as he pulled the ring free. He stepped closer on the landing, extending his hand across the narrow divide to hover over my empty palm.
He dropped the ring. The metal hit my skin, the sudden weight settling into my hand. The transaction was over.
“I’ll take that as an agreement. Thank you for the chance, Silas.”
I closed my fingers around the cold metal, finally holding the key to my own apartment.
I slid it into the deadbolt and turned it.
The lock clicked. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the frigid air of the empty fourth-floor apartment.
Shadows stretched across the vacant living room, illuminated only by the pale glow of a streetlamp outside.
I pulled my suitcase into the room, letting the plastic wheels scrape across the floorboards.
Dropping the luggage handle, I turned and pushed the door shut. I threw the deadbolt home. The lock slid into place with a loud snap.
I walked to the center of the room. Unzipping the main compartment of my suitcase, I pushed aside my sweaters to reach the bottom.
I pulled out an air mattress and a coiled power cord, unrolling the mattress across the floor and smoothing the creases with my hands.
I found a baseboard outlet near the corner and plugged the cord into the wall.
“Just start,” I muttered, turning the dial on the built-in pump.
I flipped the switch. The motor kicked on with a loud, rhythmic hum. The ridges inflated, expanding inch by inch above the dusty floor. The noise drowned out the rattle of the window and the distant traffic below. Once the mattress held a firm shape, I yanked the cord from the wall.
The sudden silence filled the room.
I sat on the edge of the rubbery bed. The vinyl squeaked under my weight. A fresh draft seeped through the window frame, slicing against my neck. I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders, crossing my arms to trap my body heat. I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm my freezing knuckles.
I reached into my pocket. My fingertips brushed the small slip of paper the clerk had given me. I pulled the pawn-shop receipt out and stared at the meager dollar amount written in blue ink.
The numbers on the paper represented a fraction of what Cassian spent on a single dinner service. As I studied the scrawled total, the memory of my husband’s voice echoed in my mind.
“Look at this view, Wren. Top floor, isolated. We own the city from up here,” Cassian had told me.
“It’s beautiful, Cassian. It’s so big,” I had replied, staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
He bought that high-rise to rule his empire, not to build a home.
The Kensingtons used their wealth to construct a gilded cage, trapping me inside with Octavia’s venomous critiques and Cassian’s dismissive sighs.
None of them could reach me here. I traced the numbers over and over with my thumbnail, letting the rough paper steady my nerves.
The lingering exhaustion of the past year felt a little further away in the drafty room.
I pressed my hand against my pregnant stomach. The proof that I was finally free rested right under my palm.
“It’s small, and it’s cold. But it’s ours, baby, and nobody can take it away,” I whispered to the empty room.
I set the paper down and shifted my weight, leaning back against the inflated ridges of the mattress. The wind howled against the glass outside, shaking the pane in its frame.
I wrapped the coat tight over my stomach and finally closed my eyes, letting the quiet isolation take over.