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“You have his phone,” I point out. And frankly, perhaps a little kidnapping scare is what “Daddy” needs? A fitting consequence for leaving your child with a stranger. “How old are you?”
Sammy wrestles Daze’s phone into his backpack. Then he carefully counts four fingers on his left hand and holds them up for me to see. “This much.”
“What do you have a taste for?” I ask Sammy while closing the door to the apartment behind us.
Just as we start down the hall, someone calls out, their voice resonating like thunder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” A tall figure withdraws from against the wall up ahead, his size imposing. Dark hair shields his face from view, and his black leather jacket and jeans bolster the danger he presents.
I shove Sammy beside me and grapple for the door to Daze’s apartment.
“Wait.” He steps closer, and a sliver of artificial light falls over his haggard features.
I know him. He’s the man from the coffee truck.
“Hi Benny,” Sammy says from around my waist. He lifts his tiny hand in a wave.
“Hey, little man,” Ben says. “Your daddy asked me to look after you for a little while. I’ll be working for the most part, but—” he cuts his gaze to mine. “I’ll be parked right outside.”
“So, he doesn’t need a babysitter after all,” I croak. Am I relieved? Annoyed? I can’t tell.
For some reason, the image of Daze begging for my help won’t leave my brain. The look in his eye…
Fear doesn’t fit someone like him. Panic, perhaps. He said that he needed me and seemed to mean it.Reallymean it.
“This just happens to be on my usual route, and Day asked for a favor,” Ben says by way of explanation.
“Good.” I shake my head to clear it. “I’ll be leaving then.”
To go where? Home is out of the question for now, and only God knows the state of Salvation. They might need my help cleaning up, though. And Father might need me…
I start down the hall, heading for the stairs, but Ben grabs my arm before I can even go a step. The second I flinch, he releases me, but he shifts his stance to block my path, making one thing clear before even uttering it out loud, “He told me to look afterbothof you. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Why?” I demand. “He doesn’t own me—”
“He said you might say something like that. So, he wanted me to give you this.”
He withdraws a slip of paper from his pocket. A photo, I realize as he hands it to me. The woman smiling in the center of it might as well be a stranger. She’s in an industrial kitchen, her blond hair piled loosely on top of her head. This must have been a stealthy snapshot, taken as she was in the middle of serving a tray of steaming dinner rolls.
I recognize this place—the Salvation Soup Kitchen service area.
I remember this day. Six or seven months ago, when I volunteered during the evening meal. That moment sticks out to me for one reason in particular. Hale was there. By then, he’d started avoiding anything and everything related to Salvation. I’d been so shocked to see him.
He stayed for only a few moments, and I caught him leaving out a backdoor right as we started to carry food into the main dining area. He never said a word to me then. I never knew what made him leave.
Could he have taken this?
An instinctive suspicion makes me turn the picture over, and I gasp loudly at what I find. Writing. Just a few scribbled lines.
Frey.
Five-seven.
Blond. Green Eyes. Always wears a gold cross around her neck.
Hours: 7am—10 am. 6pm—8pm. Weekdays.
DO NOT TALK TO HER—SHE STAYS OUT OF THIS.
