Chapter 2
Arthur did not hesitate. He ripped off his white apron, letting it drape haphazardly over a stool, and grabbed his heavy wool coat from the brass hook near the back curtain. His joints protested with a dull ache as he pushed open the front door, stepping directly into the unrelenting gray deluge. The cold water instantly soaked through the shoulders of his shirt, but he barely felt it. Adrenaline coursed through his veins with a frantic pulse he hadn't experienced since he was a young man working late shifts in the foundry.
The street was largely deserted. A delivery truck rumbled past in the distance, its tires hissing against the slick asphalt, throwing up a spray of muddy water. Arthur squinted through the driving rain, searching for the flash of a gray hoodie against the drab brick facades of the old industrial district. The footprints were still visible in the slush near his shop step—small Converse sneakers with worn treads, turning sharply toward the alleyway that led to the old commuter rail station.
He hurried as fast as his aging knees would allow, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes in the chilly autumn air. Every step sent a sharp twinge through his lower back, but fear and a desperate, fragile hope drove him forward. If she was his daughter, if little Charca had somehow survived that terrible night all those years ago, why hadn’t she known who he was? Why had she pawned her most precious heirloom for a meager hundred dollars? Desperation of that magnitude did not come from nowhere. It pointed toward dark alleys, bad choices, or forces far more dangerous than a simple rainy afternoon.
As he turned the corner into the narrow brick passage between the hardware store and the boarded-up theater, he saw a discarded receipt fluttering in a puddle. He knelt carefully, his knees splashing into the gritty water, and snatched the soggy slip of paper. It was from the corner bodega, timestamped just ten minutes before she entered his shop. She had bought a cheap bottle of antiseptic and a roll of sterile gauze.
May you like
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. Someone was hurt. Was it her? Or was she running errands for someone hiding out in the shadows of the old rail yards? The neighborhood had changed drastically since his glory days; empty warehouses now served as makeshift shelters for the desperate and the forgotten.
He pushed deeper into the alley, the scent of rotting vegetation and diesel exhaust filling his nostrils. The rail station loomed ahead, a hulking Victorian brick skeleton with broken windows and boarded-up ticket windows. A flicker of movement caught his eye near the old loading dock—a flash of gray fabric slipping behind a rusted iron dumpster. Arthur raised a hand to shield his eyes from the stinging rain, took a deep, steadying breath, and called out into the gloom, hoping against hope that she would turn around and listen.
