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As he looked at me, the warmth in his eyes radiated out. Somehow, that look unlocked me. My legs became mobile again.
“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I said. “I think I should get back to it. The hive never rests and all that.”
I broke away from him and went straight back to work.
That was months ago. Now, I’m standing outside a storefront a few blocks away from the hotel. My legs are stuck again, just like they were that day.
I already went in the store. I showed the man behind the counter the goods; he offered me a price. I accepted. In place of what was there before, in the cup of my brassiere, resting against my heart, there is now a thick wad of bills wrapped in a tissue.
I check the time on my phone. This whole transaction, including the walk here, has taken me twenty-five minutes, which is five minutes less than my original estimation, which means I’ll arrive back at work approximately five minutes before one, when, as Cheryl so kindly reminded me, the second half of my shift begins.
My stomach twists, like the dragon that resides there just flipped its tail and sent acid sloshing everywhere. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this; maybe it was wrong.
I catch my reflection in the glass. I remember Mr. Black’s sallow, downturned face, the dark bruises he inflicted, the pain he has caused.
The monster in my belly curls into a tight ball and lies down.
What’s done is done.
A lightness descends. I fill myself with breath. I marvel at my reflection in the glass—a maid, in a crisp, white dress shirt with a starched collar. I adjust my posture. I stand tall in a way that would make Gran proud.
Beyond my reflection are the goods on offer in the shop window—a shiny saxophone in a red velvet case, some solid power tools, their cords neatly wrapped into figure eights held tight with elastic bands, a few tired, old cell phones, and some jewelry in a display case. In the middle of the case is a new addition, a ring, a man’s ring, a wedding ring, encrusted in diamonds and other jewels, gleaming, an object of obvious and rare luxury—a fine treasure.
I could tell the shopkeeper felt sorry for me when he handed over the agreed-upon sum. The tight lips. The smile that wasn’t a smile. I’m beginning to understand the nuances of smiles, their cornucopia ofmeanings. I save each smile in a dictionary that I keep alphabetized on a shelf in my mind.
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped,” the shopkeeper said. “With your man, I’m mean.”
“With my man?” I replied. “On the contrary,” I say. “For the first time in a long time, things are going well with him. Very well indeed.”
I walk briskly the entire way back to the hotel, checking the time frequently. I’m making good progress. It’s now five to one, and I’m nearly at the hotel, my time estimation almost exactly right. I’m a bit flushed from the walk, and the wad of bills over my heart is slightly damp, but no matter.
It would appear the hotel has cleared out a bit since the morning; there are fewer guests about. Mr. Preston is alone at his doorman’s podium. When he sees me approaching, he steps out from behind it, his arms oddly stiff by his sides. I wave and rush up the stairs, but Mr. Preston calls down before I reach the top.
“Molly,” he says, his voice a tense whisper. “Go home.”
I stop on the third stair. His expression is odd, as though he very much needs a washroom break.
“Mr. Preston, I can’t go home now. I’m only halfway through my shift.”
“Molly,” he calls down again. “Use the back door.Please.”
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Preston? Do you need assistance?”
It’s only then that it comes into focus—the absence of guests in the grand entrance, Mr. Preston standing too formally at the podium, his strange, whispered orders. Through the glass of the revolving doors, Ican make out Mr. Snow and beside him, a looming, shadowy figure. Detective Stark.
“My dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Don’t go inside.”
“It’s quite all right,” I say as I march up the remaining steps. “A few more questions won’t kill me.”
I push through the doors. Before I can take more than one step into the lobby, Mr. Snow and Detective Stark block my path. There’s something about Detective Stark’s posture that I don’t like—the way her arms are bowed and her hands outstretched, as if I’m a varmint she’s determined to catch before I take flight. I see Cheryl out of the corner of my eye, standing a few trolley-lengths away, but there’s something different about her too. It’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on her face—a look of anticipation and excitement.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Snow and Detective Stark. “I must not dillydally. The rest of my shift begins in approximately three minutes.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” says Detective Stark.
I look to Mr. Snow, but he can barely meet my eye. His glasses are cantilevered to one side. Beads of sweat have formed at his temples. “Molly, the detective is taking you back to the station for more questioning.”
“Can’t I answer questions here and then get back to work? I have a heavy workload today.”
