Chapter 2 - Shadows at the Counter
By the end of the week, a rhythm had formed—a fragile, beautiful routine that scared me more than any silence ever had.
Every morning at six thirty, I arrived at the apartment on Elm Street. While Hannah rested in her room, following the doctor's strict orders, I took over the kitchen. My first attempt at pancakes had resulted in black, rubbery discs that Lily had politely tried to eat before throwing them to the trash with a giggle. By Thursday, however, I had mastered the technique, turning out golden-brown stacks that smelled of vanilla and melted butter.
I learned that Lily liked her orange juice with "half a splash" of water because full juice made her tongue tickle. I learned that Hannah drank her coffee black, without sugar, and that she always left the last sip in the mug, a habit from her childhood when her family used cheap instant coffee that settled like sand at the bottom.
"You're making a mess of my shop," Marcus said on Friday afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of my workshop near the railroad tracks. Marcus was my oldest friend, a metalworker who shared the building lease. He was a broad, bearded man who spoke in blunt, unfiltered truths. "You haven't touched that walnut dining table for the Miller family in three days, Ethan. They called twice asking about delivery."
I didn't stop running the belt sander over a piece of white oak. The motorized hum filled the dusty air, throwing fine white powder over my apron. "I'll finish the table by Sunday. I'm working late tonight."
Marcus walked over and hit the kill switch on the sander. The sudden silence in the shop was heavy.
"You're running yourself into the ground," Marcus said, his arms crossed over his leather apron. "You're at that apartment at six in the morning, you come here at ten, you leave at three to pick up the kid from kindergarten, you bring her here while you work, and then you go back there to cook dinner. You look like you've been hit by a freight train."
"Hannah has pneumonia, Marcus," I said, wiping my brow with the back of my forearm. "She can't lift anything heavy. She can't stand for more than ten minutes without losing her breath."
"And you're playing house," Marcus said gently, his voice dropping its sharp edge. "Ethan... look at me."
I looked at him.
"Claire's gone," Marcus said softly. "It's been seven years. If you're ready to live again, that's incredible. I've been praying for that every day since we buried her. But that woman and her kid... they aren't a repair project. You can't just sand down their rough edges, nail them together, and leave them when the job is done."
"I'm not using them," I snapped, my jaw clenching.
"I know you aren't," Marcus replied calmly. "You're a good man. The best man I know. But you're guarding them like a watchdog, and you're letting yourself fall in love with a kid who thinks you're a superhero. What happens when Hannah gets better? What happens when she tells you she doesn't need a handyman anymore?"
I didn't answer him. I couldn't. Because that very thought had kept me awake for three nights straight.
At four o'clock, I picked up Lily from her kindergarten classroom. She came bursting out the double doors of the elementary school, her bright yellow backpack bouncing against her spine, her hands covered in fresh blue tempera paint.
"Ethan!" she shouted, ignoring the school guard who waved at her to slow down. She launched herself at my legs, wrapping her arms around my knees with a thud. "We learned about penguins today! Did you know daddy penguins stand on the ice for two whole months keeping the eggs warm while the mommies go swimming?"
"That's a long time to stand on ice," I said, picking her up and settling her on my hip, her yellow backpack hanging from my elbow.
"They don't complain," Lily said authoritatively, pressing a hand against my cheek. "Because they love the egg."
I laughed—a genuine, deep sound that startled even me—and carried her to my truck.
When we arrived at the apartment, I noticed something wrong before we even reached the front stairs.
The front gate to the complex was standing wide open, its latch bent backward. On the second-floor landing outside Hannah's door, a tall, thin man in a dark canvas jacket was standing with his hands jammed into his pockets, leaning his forehead against the wooden frame of her window.
My blood turned to ice in a fraction of a second.
"Lily," I said, my voice instantly dropping into a low, quiet command as I stopped beside the truck. "Get back inside the cab. Sit on the floor and stay there until I come get you. Do you understand?"
She looked at my face, her wide hazel eyes sensing the sudden shift in the air. "Ethan? Is that—"
"Inside, Lily. Now."
She scrambled back into the truck, pulling the door shut behind her.
I walked up the stairs, my heavy boots thudding against the wooden steps, each step measured and deliberate. The man at the door turned slowly as I reached the top landing.
He was in his mid-thirties, with sharp, sunken cheekbones, thinning light brown hair, and eyes that were bloodshot and restless. He smelled of stale cigarettes and damp wool. He had a small silver hoop in his left ear, and his knuckles were scarred.
"Can I help you?" I asked, stopping three feet from him, blocking his path to the front door.
The man looked me up and down, taking in my height, my dust-covered work boots, and the broad shoulders that came from twenty years of hauling hardwood timber. A cold, bitter smile curled the corner of his mouth.
"I don't think you can help me, pal," he said, his voice raspy and thin. "I'm looking for my family. This is Hannah Vance's place, isn't it?"
The air around us seemed to freeze.
Greg.
Hannah had only spoken his name once, on a night when her fever had spiked to a hundred and two and she had gripped my wrist in a panic, whispering, Don't let Greg take her, please don't let him find us.
"She doesn't want to see you," I said, keeping my voice level, completely devoid of emotion.
Greg scoffed, taking his hands out of his pockets. "Is that right? And who the hell are you? The new landlord? Or is Hannah renting out more than just the spare room these days?"
Before he could take another breath, I stepped forward, closing the distance between us until my chest was inches from his face. I didn't raise my fists. I didn't raise my voice. I simply let him look into my eyes—the eyes of a man who had already lost everything he held dear and had nothing left to fear except losing it again.
"Listen to me carefully," I said, my voice dropping so low it sounded like gravel sliding down a hill. "Hannah is recovering from pneumonia. Lily is safe. If you knock on that door, if you stand on these stairs, or if you even look toward that kindergarten school on Maple Street again, you and I are going to have a conversation that you won't walk away from. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Greg backed up half an inch, his eyes darting to my shoulders, then to the heavy brass padlock I held loosely in my right hand—a heavy piece of hardware I had picked up from the truck bed.
"She owes me money," Greg muttered, though the aggression in his voice was rapidly deflating into a cowardly whine. "She took my kid and ran off to this dump. I have parental rights."
"You lost your rights when you put her through a drywall six years ago," I said flatly. "Get off the porch."
Greg stared at me for three long seconds, weighing his options. Then he spat onto the wooden deck, pulled his collar up around his neck, and pushed past me, hurrying down the stairs without looking back.
I watched him reach the street, get into a beat-up red sedan with a mismatched fender, and drive away into the gathering dusk.
My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from an overwhelming, terrifying rage that I hadn't felt in seven years.
I turned around and knocked softly on the apartment door.
"Hannah?" I called out. "It's Ethan."
May you like
The lock clicked, and the door pulled open an inch. Hannah stood there, pale as a ghost, clutching an old iron frying pan in her right hand like a club. When she saw my face, her hand loosened, and the pan clattered against the floorboards.
"I saw him through the curtain," she whispered, her voice trembling so violently she could barely articulate the words. "Ethan... he found us. Oh God, he found us."
