He tsks. “You’ve been late three times in two weeks.”
How does he know that? “I’m a single mom, Pete. I’m doing my best to find everything in time. But sometimes it’s just not possible, and childcare is difficult when you have no relatives or friends around.”
“I offered to help you.”
He asked me to move in with him. That was a fast no. “I’m considering your offer.”
“I could put in a good word for you with your supervisor.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.”
Why do I get the impression he wants something in return?
“Have you thought about the movies?”
Ah, there it is. I don’t think I can refuse. It could jeopardize my job. “Yeah. I’d love to go out with you this Saturday.”
“A dinner afterward? You can meet Lizzie at her new place on 7th Street.”
“That sounds great.” NOT. Why would I want to meet another woman on a date with a man? Those are unspoken dating rules, aren’t they? What did I agree to?
Chapter 6
Connor
Ekatia lives in a studio apartment on the ground floor of a building that looks like it’s been here since Selnoa’s founding. The cracks need remodeling, and the paint’s nonexistent. Once upon a time, the building was gray.
She probably lives here because this is all she can afford that’s within a reasonable walking distance from the hospital.
The old wooden windows are open, but the barbs and bars on the outside that have been placed there for safety reasons keep the intruders away while airing out the apartment. The inside smells like it’s been freshly painted. I bet they covered up the mold.
She’s a tidy person. Everything has its place. In the bathroom, I find no evidence of drug use, not even headache medicine. She’s a tidy, healthy person.
I move to the kitchenette area and open the fridge. It’s well stocked with delivered boxed meals, so she doesn’t cook. In the cupboards, there are cans, pasta, and lemonade powder. Ekatia doesn’t bake either.
Since it’s a studio, it takes my brain no time at all to gather information. I sit on the couch and stare at the empty wall in front of me. What kind of person has no TV in their apartment? No pictures either. Not even of her and the baby. It’s all very bland.
She’s starting over, she said. That explains it.
There’s some kind of a bag between the couch and the wall on my right. I pull it out. It’s a black diaper bag. What’s a diaper bag doing here if the baby is at my house? She had one with her. This is a spare. I wish I knew more about parenting.
Inside it, I find two packs of diapers, two large cans of baby formula, a tube of diaper rash medicine, baby medicine, a first aid kit, passports, cash, and is that a gun at the bottom of the bag?
I stick my hand in there and pull out an old Glock. “Nah, baby, come on. This is too heavy for you and bulky. A Glock? You’re cooler than a Glock.” A small Smith & Wesson would fit nicely in here.
Since I don’t know much about babies, I hit up my phone for research on how many diapers a mom needs for a baby of that size. I calculate the average day’s worth of supplies in the bag. Then I research the amount of baby formula needed and calculate how many days she’s packed for. Quickly, I realize this is not a day bag. This is Mom’s go bag.
I don’t know much about parenting, but I do know a ready go bag when I find one.
Is there a phone in here? There has to be.
I search thoroughly by taking out all the stuff and laying it out on the couch beside me. No phone.
“Fucking amateur.” I go back out and grab a burner from my own go bag in the back of the car, along with some beef jerky and peanuts. The baby will survive whatever apocalypse Momprepared for, but Mom will starve. Unless she has peanuts and beef jerky. Now she’ll eat nuts.
Does she have peanut allergies?