by Haylen Beck
She emerged into the lobby, saw the elevator bank to her left, a couple stepping out of one. Without thinking, she veered toward it. People gasped, stared, pointed. She pushed past the couple into the elevator, hit a button, didn’t care which floor.
“Stop her! Stop her!”
Shoe soles beating on the floor, drawing closer. The elevator doors hissed closed, and before they met, she saw Cole reaching, Villalobos coming after. Then she felt the shift in her weight as the car rose, the disembodied voice marking the passing of each floor, two, three, four, five. The panic lifted for a few moments, enough for her to wonder what the hell she was doing. She couldn’t escape them, no matter how far or how fast she ran. The car slowed, rocked her on her feet, and the doors opened once more.
Libby stepped out into a familiar hallway, a mirror image of those on the northern side of the hotel. She turned in a circle, found her bearings. Can’t stay here, she thought, got to move. They’ll know which floor the elevator stopped at, and they’ll be coming.
Got to move.
To the right of the elevator bank was the wide-open stairway like the one she’d climbed looking for Ethan, where she’d found Charles broken and bleeding. How long ago? It seemed a lifetime, but the rational part of her mind—what remained of it—told her no, it was less than two hours since her little boy had run away.
Got to move, she told herself again. But where?
She had to get off this floor, that much was clear. But not the elevator, and not those stairs. Think, think, think, she commanded. She pictured the layout on this side of the hotel, how the hallways and landings interconnected.
For no reason she could grasp, she thought of the security room, the control center with all the camera feeds. Then she pictured the narrow flight of stairs that Villalobos had brought her down to reach the basement. Yes, stairs going down, but also stairs going up. Emergency signs, EXIT-SALIDA in oversized green letters. An emergency stairwell. Did it go up this far? She made the image in her mind, the floor plan, where the stairs were in relation to the elevators.
Off to the right, nearest the corner of the block. That’s it.
Libby stumbled toward the far side of the hallway, found the plain door, a bar handle halfway up. The sign said RESORT STAFF ONLY—EXCEPT FOR EMERGENCIES. Would an alarm ring if she opened it? Didn’t matter. She had to try.
She pushed the bar, and the door opened inward, revealing a darkened stairwell. As she stepped onto the bare concrete landing, a light flickered into life, triggered by her presence. The door swung closed behind her. She listened, heard a distant electronic ringing. Yes, she’d set off an alarm. Move, she thought, get off the floor, don’t worry about the alarm.
Libby climbed the steps, now aware of the cold, coarse concrete against her soles, but she ignored the pain. As she reached the turn of the stairs, the light below flickered off, and another came on overhead. As she reached the next landing, she found the exit door, a large figure 6 painted on it. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, ready to open it and leave the stairwell, but she heard something. A sound that tore through her like a bullet.
A child’s voice. Ethan’s voice. A cry echoing down from above.
She held her breath and leaned over the handrail, stared up into the dark column of air that reached all the way up from the ground floor. Above, she saw one light die, and another come to life. A hand gripping the rail as someone climbed.
Another cry.
Libby clasped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming his name.
“It’s okay, Little Butterfly, it’s okay.”
A woman’s voice, soft, soothing, but frightened.
Two flights above, the light flickered out; half a story higher, another flickered on. Libby watched the hand on the rail, heard the voices move farther away.
She climbed, two steps at a time, and she could hear them, the woman and Ethan. His whimpering, her desperate cooing. They stopped somewhere up there.
“It’s all right, Little Butterfly, everything’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right, I promise, it’ll be all right, it’s going to be…”
The woman’s voice turned into a painful whine. Then a choked sob.
Libby kept climbing, her bare feet silent on the concrete, her chest heaving. The woman’s sobs resonated down, matched by Ethan’s cries. Libby watched the hand on the rail as she climbed, saw the woman come into view as she reached the turn.
Ethan bucked in her arms, shouted, “Mommy!”
Anna Lenihan stopped there, halfway up the flight of steps, staring down at Libby, Ethan held tight in her arms.
13
“GIVE HIM TO ME,” LIBBY said.
Anna remained still, staring down at her. Ethan squirmed and kicked.
“Please,” Libby said. “Just let him go. You can run. I’ll say I found him here alone.”
Anna shook her head, her hair moving away from her face, revealing the scarring that ran from her cheek to her neck, just beneath her ear, and the imbalance of her jawline.
Libby ascended one step, then another. Anna stayed locked in place.
“It’s not too late to stop this,” Libby said. “Give me back my little boy and get out of here before they catch you. There’s police all over the building. They know your name, they have your photograph. Get out while you can. Just let him go. Please.”
She felt a strange sense of calm now. The quivering panic of the previous hours had lifted, and she felt in control of her emotions. As she came closer to Ethan, one step at a time, she grew more certain she would have him back.
“Stop,” Anna said, taking one step up, then backing against the wall.
Ethan stretched his arms out, hands grasping at air. “Mommy!”
Libby paused, six steps between her and Anna. Somewhere below, she heard a door open, heavy feet on concrete.
“They’re coming,” Libby said, reaching. “There’s no time. Give him to me and go.”
Anna flattened herself against the wall, staring hard down at Libby, something terrible in her eyes, something burning hot and hateful.
“Let them come,” she said, the movement of her mouth uneven, as if one side was restricted.
The calm that had settled on Libby blew away like dust.
“What?”
“Let them come,” Anna said, a jagged and lopsided smile breaking. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
The panic came back in like a wave of ice-cold water. Libby’s heart punched against her sternum, her lungs strained for air. Heat in her eyes. She looked down, over the handrail, saw the lights on the floor below, a shadow of whoever approached.
“Please don’t,” she said.
As tears erupted from Libby’s eyes, Anna began to laugh, wheezy, edged by madness.
“Don’t what? Tell them the truth?”
Libby’s thighs quivered with the effort of keeping herself upright.
“Please don’t do this,” she said. “I beg you, don’t.”
She fell to her knees, the concrete biting into her skin.
“Please don’t, please, I’m begging you, please don’t do this.”
Raymond Villalobos appeared at the turn of the stairs, his pistol drawn. He froze there, staring up at Libby and Anna both.
“Give me the boy,” he said.
“No,” Anna said, wrapping her arms tighter around Ethan.
“Please,” Libby said, her voice thin like paper.
Villalobos holstered his pistol and came to her side, took her by the shoulders, tried to draw her away. Libby shook him off.
“Please don’t do this,” she said.
Villalobos stepped past her, looked from Anna to Libby and back again.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Who am I?” Anna echoed.
She smiled and kissed Ethan’
s cheek.
“I’m his mother,” she said.
14
FOUR YEARS AGO
“I GOTTA LET YOU GO,” DEVIN said.
He looked genuinely sorry, but that didn’t take the sting out of it for Anna Lenihan. She’d been working tables at the restaurant for nine months, making good tips, and had just about started to make a hole in her debts. Ten minutes ago, she’d been thinking how she could maybe afford to start saving some. And now this. Now it had all gone to shit.
“Why me?” she asked. “Don’t I work hard enough?”
Devin had called her into the office when she arrived for her shift. The restaurant was nothing special, just another bar and grill among dozens in the area. The kind of place you could get a burger or a steak that was at least palatable, maybe some ribs, along with a decent range of local brews. Classic rock rattling over the speakers, a country band on Saturday nights and holidays.
The Flatiron Bar & Grill stood at the center of the row of stores that made up one wing of a strip mall in Superior, Pennsylvania. Superior stood an hour outside of Pittsburgh, a middle-class suburb between the city to the west and the dying mining communities to the east. The town was made up of clusters of housing developments, good homes with SUVs in their driveways, punctuated by shopping malls and schools.
Anna couldn’t afford to live in Superior. Instead, she lived in a mobile-home village—a fancy name for a trailer park—over in Lafayette. Her 1978 Revere single-wide stood on a plot among hundreds of similar homes, and she did her best to keep it presentable. She mowed the lawn, such as it was, in the summer, swept up leaves in the fall, and shoveled snow in the winter. That stubborn nub of pride in her refused to be worn away, no matter how hard life tried to grind it down.
“Why me?” she asked again. “The customers like me, especially the men.”
Devin sat at the other side of the desk, an expression on his face like a man struggling to pass a turd. He held his hands out, a gesture of apology.
“Last in, first out,” he said. “That’s how it works. Look, I’ve had to let two staff go before you this month. I’m just not getting the covers to keep you on. I’m sorry. Finish tonight’s shift, I’ll match whatever you get in tips out of my pocket, all right? And I’ll give you references. That’s the best I can do for you.”
Anna wanted to pick the stapler up off the desk and throw it at his head. But she needed that money, so instead she nodded and said, “Okay.”
Devin smiled his sad smile and said, “Thank you. I’m glad you understand. You’re a good waitress. You’ll find something.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Of course. I’ll go get ready for my shift.”
She left his office, went to the kitchen, already bustling and chattering in preparation for the dinner service. Through the door in the back, past the cloakroom, to the staff restrooms. There, she locked herself in a toilet stall and cried hard.
The shift dragged by with the usual small pleasures and minor dramas. She endured a tableful of leering businessmen whose innuendos became less subtle the more they drank, knowing they’d each throw in a generous tip, not out of kindness, but to show the others how much they could afford to give away. Even when one of them placed a hand on her ass, she gently maneuvered away instead of pouring a drink over his head. They were good for fifty-five bucks and some change by the time they rolled out of the place. She watched through the window as they each got into a car—two BMWs, an Audi, and a Range Rover—and drove away, and she wished for a highway patrol stop for every one of them.
Other than that, the covers were the usual mix of bored middle-aged couples, lonesome travelers needing a meal, and a few groups of younger professionals from the tech companies that operated in Pittsburgh. It was close to midnight by the time she brought her tips to Devin’s office, intending to ask him to make good on his word to match them. Of course, he’d left thirty minutes before.
“Asshole,” she said to the empty room.
She hadn’t been stationary for long, but long enough for the aches in her calves and lower back to make themselves known. If she had any Advil left—and God, she hoped she did—she’d swallow two and the remains of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that waited in her fridge back home. She knew by the time she got there, the stiffness would have set in, and she’d wait in her twelve-year-old Honda Civic until she had the nerve to endure the pain of getting out and letting herself into her trailer.
Anna turned away from Devin’s office and found Betsy watching her, pity on her face. Betsy was twenty years older than Anna, and a head shorter, and had been waiting tables all her life. Her petite form made her look at least ten years younger, and she still pulled in good tips from those liquored-up men who thought a waitress’s job was more about indulging their clumsy flirting than it was about serving food. We feed egos here, not stomachs, she’d said more than once.
“I heard,” Betsy said. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” Anna said. “I guess I’ll have to be.”
“Devin left you this.”
Betsy took a small brown envelope from her apron pocket and handed it over. Anna opened it and found five twenty-dollar bills. Not double her tips, but better than nothing, she supposed.
“Tell him thanks,” she said.
“There’s not much more to do here,” Betsy said. “Why don’t you go on home?”
Anna almost argued, but the lure of Advil and wine was too strong. “Thank you,” she said, and grabbed her coat from the rack by the office door. As she slipped it on, she said, “Stay in touch?”
The words surprised her, slipped out with no thought, which meant they were honest. She’d lost count of the friends she’d promised to stay in contact with but never had. But this time it felt like she meant it. Betsy was good people, and Jesus, she needed as many of those as she could get.
“Sure,” Betsy said, and hugged her.
Anna breathed in as they embraced. The odor of fried food, old beer, and soap, but underneath, Betsy smelled clean and good.
As they parted, Betsy said, “You know what? I got tomorrow night off. What do you say I come over, bring some beer and some pizza and some trashy movies? What do you think?”
Tears came to Anna’s eyes, and she wiped them away. “Sounds great.”
Betsy cradled Anna’s face in her hands. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. I promise.”
And Anna believed her.
* * *
—
SHE SLEPT TILL past eleven, held under by half a bottle of wine, and half of another, and two doses of painkillers. Harsh fall sunlight cut through the gaps in the blinds, spearing into her consciousness. She lay still for a time, flat on her back, wary of moving lest she trigger a rolling tide of pain from around her body. The layers of comforter and blanket that had shielded her from the cold during the night began to feel oppressively heavy and hot, sweat sticking her pajama bottoms to her legs.
After a count of ten, she drew her knees up, making a mountain beneath the covers, and immediately her calves cramped.
“Shit, fuck!” she hissed, grabbing a clamoring muscle in each hand and kneading the flesh, trying to get the blood moving, carrying precious oxygen to the fibers. Eight years she’d been waiting tables and still her body complained about it.
Anna had been born and raised in Massachusetts, in a nothing town west of Boston, where what little family she had still lived to this day, as far as she knew. She hadn’t been back there in more than a decade, and could count on one hand the number of times she’d spoken to her mother since then. She had drifted ever since, alone but seldom lonely, bouncing from job to job, town to town, state to state.
There had been men along the way, a fling here, a full-on romance there, and two marriage proposals. She had come close to accepting one of them, but the idea of spending the rest of her life with Jonathan�
�a handsome, earnestly honest mechanic who worked for a car-rental firm—filled her with pitch-black dread, like staring into a bottomless pit of dinners and breakfasts and weekends and holidays all spent looking away, wondering if there was something better waiting for her elsewhere.
When she said no, he called her a cunt and slapped her hard enough to bloody her lip. As she lay on the ground in that park, as he marched away cursing, she thanked God for helping her dodge that bullet and that life.
Now, staring at the ceiling of her single-wide in Lafayette, Pennsylvania, she told herself to move, goddammit, get up. The cramps had eased to a dull throb, so she steeled herself for the shock of cold as she threw back the bedcovers. The chill bit hard, and it was only November. The long gray winter months loomed ahead like bad news. Anna missed the winters back home, real snowfall turning the world white for weeks on end. Not like here with its damp cold that seemed to creep under your clothes and next to your skin.
As goose bumps spread across her body, she sat upright and dropped her feet to the floor. The muscles of her lower back spasmed and she clenched her jaw. The urge to slide back under the blankets was strong, but she knew getting up and moving would loosen the knots back there. Besides, she had things to do. The place was a mess, and Betsy was coming over around seven. Enough time to make the place presentable.
The day passed easily. She kept the TV on for background noise as she cleared up and cleaned, one eye on talk shows and sitcom reruns as she folded laundry and wiped down surfaces. At one point in the afternoon, she stopped and ate a bowl of cereal. All the time, she considered the days and weeks ahead.
Perhaps her time would have been better spent poring over the job listings online or in the local paper, but she felt content to take a day for herself. She had enough money put aside to last a month, maybe six weeks if she was careful. Devin had promised her references, and she was a good worker, punctual, and could always fake a smile for the drunkards.
“I’ll be fine,” she said aloud.
Anna told herself that a dozen times more as afternoon passed into evening. Wish enough, and it’ll come true, she thought.
