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“What did you say your name was? Skip?”
“Scout, sir. Scout Keats.”
“And how long have you worked at Patras Hotel, Scout Keats? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”
“Two weeks.”
He nodded. “Are you new to the Folsom area?”
“No, sir. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
His fingers tightened on her chin and turned her face to the left. “You have very unusual eyes, Ms. Keats. How old are you?”
His question caught her off guard. She had always known her eyes were unique. Against her dark brown lashes, the blue irises appeared almost white. Witch eyes, Parker called them. Once she tried disguising them with a makeup pencil she had found, but their glasslike color within the dark ring only became more startling.
“I’m twenty-seven,” she lied. Adding five years to her actual age seemed necessary, like those five imaginary years could somehow protect her against this superior being.
Scout shifted her feet, the weight of her basket becoming awkward in her hands. The motion attracted his attention. He looked down at her burden and suddenly released her face and stepped back as if the collection of cleaning products worked as a reminder of her situation. Peasant in the presence of royalty. Recalling his balcony, she decided it was more a throne than anything else. She imagined him holding court there as all of Folsom gazed up at him.
“You may go.”
His sudden dismissal had her gaining control of her faculties, and in a split second she rushed toward the penthouse door. Quickly setting the basket there, she returned the sweeper to the supply closet. He followed her at a distance, watching her as if to make sure she didn’t steal anything. Scout didn’t make eye contact. She simply kept her gaze lowered to the ground and collected her items and left.
On the ride down to the next floor she regretfully accepted that this might be her last day at the hotel. Likely the man would submit a complaint about her to Tamara and they would care more about keeping the in-house billionaire pleased than keeping their homeless new housekeeper employed. This paycheck would have to last.
Chapter 2
The Tracks
Stepping out of the pawnshop where she had her check cashed, Scout walked directly to the gas station across the street. Once inside the public restroom, door locked, she deposited her bag on the rusty sink. Her fingers rifled through the wad of soft money in her hands and her heart raced. Counting slowly, focusing on her numbers, Scout formed four piles of one hundred dollars and recounted each to be sure.
Once certain she was given the right amount she folded each stack tightly. Each faded green pile sat neatly on the tank of the toilet. Inside her bag she found her jeans, regular shoes that fit, a hooded sweatshirt, and her money belt. Stripping out of her uniform, she folded it as best she could so that it wouldn’t be wrinkled in the morning.
After strapping the belt tightly around her ribs, she inserted three of the piles into the zipper compartment. Pulling on her jeans, Scout divided the remaining hundred dollars into four stacks, slipping a stack deep in each denim pocket. Once dressed, her hands compulsively checked that her money was secure.
Parker would be waiting for her. There were only two hours until curfew, but she needed to find Pearl before she returned to the shelter. If she didn’t make it in time, she’d have to sleep at the tracks, which wasn’t something she enjoyed doing, especially with four hundred dollars on her person, but she couldn’t go back without taking care of Pearl.
The sun never made it through the haze that day. The blustery autumn wind chased litter along the back roads of Folsom beneath the webbing of vapor-bloated clouds. Past the point of beauty, brown leaves clogged the gutters and pathways. As she turned deeper into the forgotten crannies of the city, signs of life showed less and less.
Decrepit planks of pavement made up broken sidewalks. Faded abandoned buildings created the backdrop for graffiti. Barbed-wire fences formed treaty lines separating frightened drivers who accidentally lost their way from those hiding from the world.
Cutting directly to the hidden section of fence that’d been previously ripped from its poles, she lifted the heavy chain-link sheet, rolling under the sharp edge. Striding quickly and with purpose, Scout kept an eye on her surroundings and favored the fastest route to the tracks.
The scent of burning trash and sulfur from the nearby refineries irritated her sinuses. A cold trickle ran toward her lip from her nose. She brushed it away and hoisted herself onto the ledge of a loading dock outside of an abandoned warehouse. Lowering to her belly, she rolled under the metal garage door propped open by a cinderblock.
The vacant mill was silent, but Scout could detect the signs of life, never forgetting those who wished to remain unseen were watching her. Stowed belongings were stashed in secreted corners, secured by makeshift safeguards serving only to bring peace of mind, but lacking any real purpose.
