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Once he dropped the can in my bag for me, he retreated further into the shadows and drew the hood closer to his face. “Wait!” I called. “What’s your name? I just want to thank you!”
There was no answer, though his feet paused so he could turn his head back to glance at me. He shook it side to side in a no, and I furrowed my brow with rising curiosity.
What harm could there be in a name?
“Well, my Shadow.” I smiled, feeling ridiculous even as I said the words. “Thank you for saving me.” He stilled for a few seconds and then nodded, turning back and continuing on his way through the alley.
I followed, determined to see where he went. There was no harm in seeing where he went, not when my car was in the same direction.
But the end of the alley was empty when I reached it. There was no trace of him, though it seemed impossible that he could have disappeared so quickly.
Just gone.
Nothing but the faint scent of metal left in his wake.
Three
Calla
One year ago
Dead.
My husband was dead.
Everybody died. Everybody left. Nothing was constant.
Why had I thought Chad would be any different?
The man across the table stared back at me, pity and sympathy shining in his eyes.
I hated it. I hated that I'd gone from having everything I could ever dream of, to being the woman people pitied.
Leaving Axel and Ines with my dad even for an afternoon felt brutal. The way they’d clung to me so desperately, afraid that I wouldn't come home. A five-year-old and one-year-old had no business knowing what that kind of pain felt like. They were too young to understand. Too young to know someone had gunned their father down in the street.
Sitting in a fancy lawyer’s office where I didn’t belong, waiting to receive more grievous news, it felt like the man across from me would pull the rug out from under us at any moment. It had been devastating to discover that the benefits that should have taken
care of us after Chad’s death would never come, that his supervisor claimed he couldn’t disburse them since he didn’t know why Chad had been in that part of town when he was meant to be on the other side of town.
It only left me with more questions.
"Mrs. Latour, your late husband arranged for a considerable trust for you and the children, should the day come when he could no longer provide for you all. Your benefactor will use it to make payments into your account monthly, and it will be enough for the three of you to live the way you've become accustomed to for at least one year."
"I-I don't understand," I mumbled, wiping my nose with the tissue in my hand. It felt like I never stopped crying, and the knowledge that Chad had gone even more out of his way to see us taken care of after his death sent me over the edge. "Where did he get that kind of money?" He’d never mentioned setting up a trust fund or anything of the sort.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss it, Mrs. Latour." The man smiled at me, his eyes kind even in the face of my confusion. "But in the meantime, I hope it helps to ease the financial burden you're confronted with after his death. You can continue to stay home with your children during this time of transition, content knowing you'll have money to pay your mortgage and put food on the table. Your benefactor is aware of all your bills and expenses, and he'll send you money accordingly."
"My benefactor. Did he know Chad?" I asked, wringing my hands together.
"Yes. He knew your late husband very well and promised he would see you and your children taken care of should something happen to him."
I nodded, but my eyes darted up into the camera at the corner of the ceiling briefly. The familiar feeling of warmth slid down my spine, the same way it had for years. I’d felt eyes on me so often it had become my new normal. At first, I’d looked over my shoulder constantly, spent nearly a year living in paranoia, but after my shadow saved me in a dark alley, I couldn’t seem to muster up fear of that feeling.
A figment of my imagination looked out for me.
Even with my legging-clad ass perched on the edge of the nicest leather chair I’d ever seen and sitting in front of a stunning mahogany desk, I knew something about this situation was unusual. But the signature on the paperwork in front of me was my husband's. An exact copy of his scrawl I'd spent too much time telling him he needed to make legible.
"If he knew Chad so well, why didn't he meet with me himself? I don't understand why he wouldn't want to see me. I'd like to thank him," I said, holding my head high as I stared at the man in front of me.
