Chapter 10
Cade's POV
I worked at the shop until four. Lost count of how many times I'd bent my knuckles by then.
Wasn't a light day. Morning brought in a hybrid, owner complaining about rough acceleration. I crawled under, found a partial clog in the transmission fluid line, checked the brake pads while I was at it — worn damn near to the warning line.
Afternoon was a pickup truck, undercarriage banged up, exhaust pipe hanging crooked.
Dick pointed at it and said, "Finish it today." I didn't answer, just grabbed a wrench and got to work.
Sparks flew when the welding torch was on; a few hit the back of my hand and stung, but it wasn't worth stopping for.
The shop floor was poured concrete, soaked with years of oil, sticky underfoot. Dick had rigged up his own sound system and had been blasting metal all afternoon. Guitar noise and the roar of the pneumatic wrench mixed, buzzing inside my skull in a way that somehow made things quieter.
I liked that feeling. When you're working, you don't have to think about anything else.
Close to quitting time, my phone buzzed. I pulled off my gloves, wiped the grease off my face with the back of my hand, unlocked the screen — the Sterling family's payment had come through. A week's wages, down to the cent.
I stared at the number for a few seconds, then shoved the phone back in my pocket.
The money was clean. Nothing to overthink.
Dick was putting away tools at the next station and didn't look up. "Tomorrow. That SUV's driveshaft still needs work."
"Got it."
I returned my tools, washed my hands, and put my jacket back on. Black long sleeves, heavy fabric, covered my wrists. When I stepped outside, the wind hit me head-on, carrying diesel fumes from the direction of the tracks. I got on the bike, started it up, and headed toward Ironside.
She'd smell it.
I stood at the stairwell entrance and thought about it. Go find a public restroom and rinse off? Stop by a convenience store and buy something?
Then I thought about where she grew up. A place where even the hallways smelled good, where someone changed out fresh flowers every day. Everything she'd ever smelled was probably roses, cedarwood, freshly pressed linen.
She'd only moved here a few days ago. The stairwell always had this rust smell seeping in from somewhere, and anyone coming home brought a full day's worth of sweat with them.
I looked down at my hands. Oil still stuck in the creases between my fingers. Two fresh scrapes on the back of my hand from today, next to the edges of a few old scars peeking out from under my sleeve.
The gap wasn't small.
Then I realized how long I'd been standing here, debating whether I should clean myself up before opening the door.
Felt stupid.
I put my hand on the doorknob and pushed it open.
The lights were on inside, but no one was there.
I scanned the place — kitchen empty, living room empty, bedroom door open, also empty.
The floor was cleaner than it had been this morning. That corner that always had dust built up had been scrubbed, the color lighter now where it had been wiped down. The windowsill was clean too; the rag by the sink had been refolded and draped over the faucet, the bed was made, neat.
She'd cleaned the whole apartment, and then she was gone.
Out somewhere?
I checked the time. Almost six. Dark outside.
Jack came out of his bedroom holding a beer, saw me, and hesitated for half a step. "Oh, you're back." He glanced behind me. "Ella didn't come with you?"
"Where is she?"
"No idea." Jack popped the tab and sat down on the couch. "I took a nap this afternoon; she was already gone when I woke up. Kelly said she saw her leave in a jacket around three or four; she didn't say where she was going."
He looked up at me, probably read something in my face, and softened his tone a little. "Three-something? Maybe four? I wasn't paying attention."
She was alone, only had the bit of cash I'd left her this morning in her pocket, didn't know this area at all, and she wasn't home at this hour—
She left.
The thought came up and stayed there. Couldn't pretend I hadn't seen it.
Jack set his beer on the coffee table, for once didn't crack a joke, and said quietly, "Man, you think she figured it out and just bailed? I mean, she really doesn't look like someone who could handle living here..."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.
Honestly, it wasn't impossible. She'd only been here one day, no hot shower, no clean sheets, none of the things she'd taken for granted for twenty years. She'd been alone all day, had time to think it through, and made her decision.
Or maybe she just went out for air and hadn't come back yet.
It was dark outside. This area wasn't safe after nightfall. She didn't know it at all, didn't know which streets were fine and which ones to avoid. The way she looked, just walking around made her a target.
Whether she was planning to leave for good or just went out to clear her head, being out there alone wasn't right either way.
I grabbed my work jacket off the chair and headed out.
The wind on the street carried the Rust Belt's signature smell — scrap metal, sewer drains, and a fried chicken joint somewhere in the distance all mixed together.
I walked in the directions she might have gone, thinking as I went.
Would've been good if I could get that money back.
My old partner, the one who ran off with nearly two years' worth of startup capital I'd saved — still couldn't find a trace of him. If I had that money, things would be easier; maybe I could afford a better place, wouldn't have to keep her at Ironside. Maybe then she'd—
Maybe then she'd want to stay.
I stopped that line of thought.
What are you thinking?
Whether she stayed or not and how big the apartment was — those were two separate things. I knew that. I was connecting them because I didn't want to face the real problem.
The real problem was that how she looked standing next to me and how I looked standing next to her weren't the same picture at all. A nicer apartment wasn't going to close that gap.
I turned a corner and stopped.
She was standing in front of a job board, her back to me.
The board was one of those old wooden frames nailed to a wall, covered with a mix of handwritten and printed notices. She stood in front of one on the right side, not moving, just looking. The wind lifted a strand of her hair. She didn't push it back.
I walked over.
"What are you doing here?"
She turned her head, saw it was me, and looked a little surprised. "Getting some air."
Her eyes flicked to the board. I followed her gaze — a help-wanted notice for a floral design studio. The requirements said, "work experience preferred."
"You thinking about applying?"
"Just looking." She paused, then said, "Maybe looking seriously."
I didn't say anything. She was standing here alone, hadn't run, wasn't crying, just looking at a job posting, and there was something real in her eyes.
Then she stepped forward, probably meaning to walk, but there was a raised crack in the pavement she didn't notice. Her toe caught, her hand shot out instinctively to the side, and grabbed onto mine.
Not hard, but she held on.
I didn't move.
She seemed to realize it; her fingers shifted slightly like she was going to pull back, but I turned my hand over first and closed it around hers.
She didn't pull away.
We stood there side by side for a second, the streetlight pressing our shadows flat on the ground, uneven lengths.
"Come on," I said. "Let's go get some things."
She made a small sound of agreement and followed, her hand still in mine.
