Chapter 8

The coffee shop was on the other side of the bustling street. If she wanted to explain to her employer why she would not be able to work for some time to come or even work at all, she would have to cross the road and enter the café.

That task, however, was not as easy as it sounded, and that had nothing to do with how busy the road was. It had to do with the fact that her family members knew where she worked and if Samuel Karly had communicated his displeasure to them, the way he did to her, then the probability that they would be lying in wait for her was high.

She, therefore, stood, partially hidden behind a telephone booth, face covered with a baseball cap and mask, trying to pick out any of her family members from the individual that walked out and about the café.

Mainly her sisters.

Her parents should have gone to work but her sisters were on holiday and were free to do whatever they wanted. That's why she suspected they would be the ones looking for her.

After a few minutes of checking the entrance out, Miranda decided to walk by the café to see if there was anyone from her family inside.

Crossing the road a distance away, she put her hands in her pocket and her head down and tried to casually walk past. She tilted her head slightly to peer through the glass and see into the building. instantly, she noticed her two younger sisters sitting opposite each other.

Both of them with a cup of coffee in hand and both of them looking positively murderous.

She flinched and quickly hurried away, panting slightly. They knew and they were angry. No, no, no. She was effectively fired. She could not go back. If they were willing to lie in wait for her every day, then she could never go back. She had lost her job.

It was not all bad though, Miranda thought, as she crossed the street again and began weaving through the buildings, keeping to the back alleys. She had never intended to keep working at the coffee shop. She only wanted enough money to fund her transport to and fro interview venues and to buy presentable clothes for the interviews.

She had been working there for three months now, and while she didn't have enough money to buy all the clothes she would have wanted to look corporate, she had enough for transport fares.

Add that to the clothes she had received from Mr. Devin and her situation was really not all bad. She could make it work. She just had to get her documents.

After ten minutes of navigating through back alleys and, Miranda arrived in front of her family house and once again, hid on the opposite side of the street. She surveyed the area carefully and fearfully. She really did not want to run into any of her family.

Thankfully, the house looked empty, with all the curtains drawn and all the windows shut. Squaring her shoulders, Miranda stepped out from beside a front sign advertising dry cleaning services and walked to her house.

She scaled the low fence and curved around to the back of the house. It did look empty but she was not taking any chances. It was better to sneak in than to go for the main door.

Miranda stopped directly below her room's window, frowning at the remnants of a fire and a heap of burnt materials lying on the grass below. She looked up at the window and made the trip mentally. It was doable.

Bracing herself on the windowsill of the living room, she slowly climbed up the side of the house, eventually getting to her window. She pushed it open without any worry that it would be locked. She had asked her father over and over again to fix it but her petition fell on deaf ears. Now, it came in handy.

Miranda slipped into the room, wincing when the window squeaked. Breathing rapidly, she knelt beside her bed and looked under it, searching for the large suitcase where she kept all her essential documents. She located it and drew it from underneath the bed.

The first sign of trouble was how light it was. The suitcase had all her documents from her birth certificate to her bachelor's degree certificate. It should be heavier.

The second sign of trouble was the state of the suitcase. It was normally locked with a code only she knew. She had no issue opening and closing it; she never forgot the code. But it was clear that someone without the code tried to access what was inside the suitcase.

It was torn. The zip had been cut and slit open. And from what Miranda could see, the case was empty.

Her stomach dropped.

Hoping for a miracle, she unlocked the suitcase and flipped it open. It was empty. Empty. Everything was gone. All her documents, all her certification, all her bank information, all the forms of identification she had was gone.

It was all gone.

She shot up, frantic, and ran to her wardrobe. She must have kept it there. She must have. There was simply no way all her documents were gone. She must have simply kept it somewhere else.

Miranda pulled her wardrobe open and felt another wave of nausea batter her gut. It was empty. Her underwear, her scarves, her jeans, her gowns. Everything was gone. The only thing left was the clothes hangers whose presence only emphasized the absence of her belongings.

She spun around, taking in the entire room. Only now did she note the displaced state of the room. The drawers were pulled out, her duvets were rumpled, her tabletop disorganized.

Where were all her belongings? They must have kept it somewhere. Then she remembered. The fire she saw. They had burnt it all. Everything she owned, they had burnt it all.

Miranda sank to the floor, hand over her chest, her face blank and full of tears. No hope. There was no hope. She had lost everything she had. She had nowhere to go from here.

She would have remained in that state of disorientation and despair if not for the sound of the front door opening. She gasped and shot up. Someone had entered the house. There was someone in the house with her.

One of her family members.

Panting, she dashed to the window, pushed it open, and was promptly horrified when it let out a loud squeak. She paused, praying that the sound was not heard. But like most of Miranda's other prayers, this one was ignored.

Loud thuds could be heard as the person downstairs ran up.

Abandoning all attempts to be silent, she climbed out of the window and was about to make the journey down when the door to her room burst open and her father stood in the doorframe, breathing hard like a wild bull.

"Miranda!" He exclaimed and dove for the window.

Terrified beyond measure, Miranda let go of the window frame and fell to the yard below. She yelped in pain and staggered to the floor. She had sprained something. Her left knee, it seemed.

"Miranda!" came another murderous bellow. She looked up to see her father's face, red and purple, sticking out of her window. "I will kill you, you useless bitch. I will kill you!"

His face disappeared and she did not need to think twice about it before she scrambled to her feet and ran. Her wounded knee protested but this was a life-or-death matter. She got to the fence and scaled it in one jump as her father pulled the front door open, rattling the jambs.

She looked back to see him waddle as fast as his bulk would allow him.

"Miranda!" he screamed once more. "Come back here."

She did the exact opposite; running, limping, and jogging away. She slipped through the back alleys, finding her way back to the main road.

Fortune smiled at her and at the nearest bus stop, there was a bus waiting. She jumped on it and it took off, entering into the afternoon traffic.

***

It was truly difficult to beg. To beg for help, to beg for assistance, and worst of all, to beg for money. It wasn't out of pride or some foolish arrogance. She had none of that.

It was just the feeling of shame that you needed help to get through in life. The feeling of humiliation that came with asking another to part with their hard-earned money for your sake. It was humbling. And it was the only path open to Miranda.

She sat at the corner of the large bed and contemplated the huge mess that was her life. She had no idea how long she sat there but judging from the bright neon lights that replaced the sun's glare, it was well into the evening.

How did things turn out this bad?

Where did it go so wrong? Was she cursed?

All sorts of negative thoughts made their way into Miranda's head, plunging her into one of the worst moods of her life. She had thought of and debated all the options open to her. Each one was grimmer than the last.

She had to recover her documents, she knew that. But to recover them, she needed money. Money to pay the government offices, money to transport herself to and fro the said offices.

And she had no money. The little she had was inaccessible to her now that all her bank documents had been destroyed.

To get the money she needed, she could apply for a job. Any menial job. But to apply for a job, she needed credentials. Credentials that were destroyed by her family and could not be recovered without money.

The sad circle of her life.

The items Walter Finn had brought for her sat at one corner of the room, beckoning her to them. Should she return the items and get back their monetary value? No, she didn't have the receipts. Then, should she pawn them?

She needed money badly. The ache in her knee had gotten so bad, she doubted she would be able to walk unaided tomorrow. It needed treatment and treatment, even if it was a bandage and pain medication from a pharmacy, cost money.

The tears came hard and fast, racing down her freckled cheeks. Within a few seconds, sobs racked her body, forcing her to the soft rug of the hotel room. She hugged her knees to her chest and cried till she had no tears left to cry.

Miranda felt wrung out, her heart sore and bruised. She lay on her side and prayed that someone, anyone at all would help. She needed help.

The phone rang shattering the utter silence in the room. Miranda sat up, a little dazed. The phone rang again, trembling in its cradle. She shuffled across the floor to the desk and stretched a hand to pick it up.

The crisp voice of the receptionist came through. "Good evening, Ms. Dunne. You have a pending call from Mr. Walter Finn. Would you like me to put him through or to decline the call?"

Mr. Finn?

Clearing her throat, she tried for a calm tone but her voice came out in a croak. "I'd like to receive the call. Please put him through."

"A second, please."

Miranda waited, body stiff with anxiety. Tonight would be the second night she would spend in the hotel. Was he calling to tell her that her time was up? And if he did, how would she convince him to allow her to stay? She had nowhere else to go.

She heard a soft click and the voice of Walter Finn filtered through the phone.

"Good evening, Miranda."

"Good evening, Walter. It's nice to hear from you."

"And you too. I apologize for the late call. I tried contacting you earlier in the day but I was informed that you were not in."

"Yes, I…I had something to attend to, so I left for a while."

"I understand perfectly. I am calling to invite you to dinner with Mr. Devin. Tomorrow evening. Will it be a good time for you?"

Miranda's brain short-circuited. "D-dinner?"

"Yes. Tomorrow with Mr. Devin."

Miranda's mouth was open but no sound could be heard. She remained like that until Walter, concerned with her silence, asked, "Miranda, is anything the matter?"

"No, no. I'm fine. It's just…dinner with Mr. Devin? Why?"

"Mr. Devin requested it. If you meet with him, I think you'll have the opportunity to ask him. May I go ahead and make the appointment?"

She nodded before realizing he could not see her. "Yes, please."

"That's good to hear. I will be at the hotel by 7 pm to pick you up. Take care and good night."

"Good night."

The phone clicked off and Miranda stared into space, still holding it against her ear. What an unexpected turn of events. He had not called to evict her from the hotel. Instead, to invite her to dinner on Mr. Devin's behalf.

She slowly replaced the phone on the cradle, still deep in thought. The invitation did not solve her problems but it gave her something else to think about.

And she found herself waiting for tomorrow to come.