Chapter 84. Monday

Chapter 84. Monday
The alley behind Lizzy’s Auto smelled like brake fluid and wet cardboard. Halogen from the one working street-lamp feathered over dented dumpsters, turning everything sepia and sick. Alex fidgeted beside me—hands jammed in his hoodie, knee bouncing, breath fogging in uneven bursts.
“Relax,” I murmured. “No one bites unless you run.”
He tried a smile; it showed too many teeth.
Tires crackled over gravel. An unmarked van rolled to a stop, back doors creaking open. Three men climbed out—leather coats, bulked shoulders, none older than twenty-five but already carrying that half-lidded stare of guys who’d seen too many parking-lot fights. The tallest, shaved head and faded spider tattoo on his neck, surveyed me like I was a questionable package on his doorstep.
“This the kid?” he asked Alex, ignoring me.
I stepped forward first. “Irene Kelly. I set the meet.” My voice came out calmer than my pulse. “You’re Finch, right?”
Neck-tat blinked, acknowledging. “Boris vouches you want a… package relocation.”
“No bruises, no broken anything.” I kept my gaze level, let them see the tape on my knuckles, proof I knew pain but wasn’t hunting for it. “Just pick-up after last bell, black Civic parked by the tennis courts. Passenger is a girl—blonde, five-five. Drive her forty miles south, drop her at the old rest-stop off Route 9. There’s an old house there, just by the stop. Drop her there, but leave it open. Leave her phone on the seat, engine running. No threats, no names, no trace. She makes it home on her own steam.”
The shortest guy—chipmunk face, linebacker arms—snorted. “Little rich-school prank?”
“Call it karmic fieldwork,” I said. “You interested or not?”
Finch rubbed his jaw. “Fuel, time, risk. And you want it today?”
“Today.”
He conferred with his crew in low murmurs laced with cigarette smoke. Alex’s knee jittered like a jackhammer; I grazed his sleeve to steady him. You wanted out of the prank business, Ren, a voice in my head whispered. But revenge had momentum; once rolling, it didn’t stop cleanly.
Finch turned back. “Two hundred up front. Another four when the drop’s done and clean.”
Six hundred. My savings account—meant for senior-trip deposit—held just under nine. I nodded. “Cash. In twenties.”
He extended a broad palm. “Up front, now.”
I peeled a wad from my pocket, counted out the bills. My hands didn’t tremble; maybe the sleepless night had burned off fear. Finch tucked the money into his coat, then jotted an address on a torn matchbook. “Remainder here. Midnight.” He flicked the matchbook to me. “We don’t babysit. If she flags a cop, that’s her problem.”
“As long as no hands touch her,” I repeated.
“We’re not animals.” Finch signaled; the crew piled back into the van, doors slamming. Engine growled, taillights disappeared.
The alley went quiet except Alex’s ragged sigh. “Ren, this is messed up.”
“She’s terrorized Emma for three years.” I shoved the matchbook into my pocket. “One night starving for Uber signal won’t kill her.”
“Still… it’s kidnapping.” His voice cracked on the word.
I stared at the damp asphalt reflecting the lamp’s halo. “No fists—just fear. Sometimes fear teaches faster than admin detentions.”
He swallowed, then nodded uncertainly. We stepped out of the alley into the chill predawn. My phone buzzed—a calendar ping reminding me of the 7:30 coffee with Emma. The timing felt obscene: orchestrate a ghost-abduction at six, beg forgiveness with caramel foam at seven-thirty.
Storms, always storms. Could I really show up to Emma with clean words when my hands weren’t clean at all?
But the machine was set in motion; backing out now could leave Diana hurt worse if the crew thought the job doomed. I exhaled frost. One more push, then maybe the storm inside me could finally blow itself out.
“Go home, Alex,” I said. “Pretend you never heard the word kidnapping.”
He flinched but turned up his collar and walked. I watched till he rounded the corner, then headed for the bakery. Two butter croissants, one bitter Americano. Maybe flaky pastry and truths would be enough to tilt my own balance back toward something Emma could still recognize.
I doubted it—but sometimes storms bet on impossible forecasts.


I haven’t actually slept tonight—twenty-minute microsnoozes on top of a textbook don’t count—so the headache blooming behind my eyes is all adrenaline residue, no bourbon required. The cafeteria is still half-dark; the custodians only switched on the perimeter lights, leaving the center tables in bluish dawn-glow. Chairs upside-down like stilt‐legged spiders. Plenty of places for panic to perch.
Thirty minutes early, Irene.
Because the universe owes you zero more chances to be late.
I nurse an Americano that tastes like burned pennies. First swallow somersaults in an empty stomach, but food felt like weakness until I was already in line staring at laminated danishes. I grabbed two butter croissants anyway—one for her, one for penance—and slid exact change across the counter. The barista didn’t bother hiding her yawn.
Now the paper bag sits between my palms like a warm, flaky hourglass. Grease spot blooming. Time passing.
What do I say if she actually walks through that doorway?
I’m sorry—said it.
I’ll listen—promised it.
Maybe I just ask, “What do you need right now?” Then clamp my mouth shut until she answers.
My phone lies face-down beside the coffee. No new pings. No “running late :)” that she sometimes sends when she’s half a hallway away. A brittle part of me hopes for it; another part thinks I deserve the empty screen.
I rehearse sentences anyway, tapping each word into the tabletop with a fingertip:
I won’t decide your feelings for you.
You’re allowed to hurt; I’m allowed to change.
I brought the caramel-foam coffee, exact spec, but I’ll drink it myself if you’d rather throw it at my head.
The wall clock clicks to 7:11. Only custodial footsteps and the clunk of the soda machine refilling ice. I force a bite of my croissant; it flakes across the tray, butter sweet and pointless.
If she doesn’t come, I’ll stay until the bell, then slip the spare pastry into her locker with a note: Still here when you’re ready. Does that sound stalkery? I exhale through my nose, taste sugar and fear.
The main doors squeak. I jerk upright, pulse spiking. A cluster of freshman boys shuffles in, dropping backpacks with seismic teenage force. Not her. Heart rate edges down; disappointment brings a wave of nausea.
One sip, bitter pennies again.
Show up and be present, Kira had said.
Attendance, not fireworks.
She might come. She might turn the corner, pink-hair halo catching fluorescent light. She might thumb-type a last-second Sorry, not ready. Either way, at 7:30 she’ll get a choice. My job is to sit in this half-lit cafeteria with a stomach full of dread and butter, proof that for once, I arrived before the storm.