Chapter 2 - The Paper in the Snow
Nathaniel did not approach the table immediately. Instead, he caught the waitress's eye near the register, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into her apron pocket. "The rest of their dinner, whatever they want," he murmured, his voice low. "And a hot meal for the mother. Tell them it's a holiday special."
He stepped out into the biting wind, the cold Pennsylvania air immediately seeping through his wool cashmere coat. He had intended to get into his car and drive back to his empty, echoing house. But as he started the engine, he watched the diner door open.
The young mother emerged, holding a styrofoam box of leftovers, grasping her daughter’s hand. They did not walk toward the nearby bus stop. They walked to the far, unlit corner of the parking lot, stopping beside a rusted, ten-year-old sedan. Nathaniel watched as the mother unlocked the back door, helped the little girl inside, and then pulled a thin, patchwork quilt from the trunk. She was setting up to sleep in the car. The temperature was set to drop below freezing by midnight.
Nathaniel stepped out of his vehicle, his boots crunching against the ice. "Excuse me," he called out, keeping his distance so as not to frighten them.
The woman spun around, her eyes wide with protective terror, shielding the back window with her body. "We’re leaving," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "I just needed a minute to warm up the engine. We're not trespassing."
"You're not trespassing," Nathaniel said gently, raising his bare hands to show he meant no harm. "I was inside the diner. I noticed you and your daughter. It's too cold to be out here tonight."
As he stepped closer into the dim halo of the streetlamp, the little girl pushed the car door open just a crack. "Mommy, I dropped it," she whispered.
A crumpled piece of paper fluttered out of the car, dancing across the ice before stopping against Nathaniel's leather boot. He knelt to pick it up. It was a child’s crayon drawing of a large, modern office building, but the logo carefully drawn at the top made the breath catch in his throat. It was the Whitmore Construction crest.
May you like
Nathaniel looked up at the mother, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Where did she get this?"
The woman snatched the paper from his hand, her jaw set with a mixture of grief and deep, simmering anger. "Her father drew the logo for her," she said bitterly. "Right before that company killed him."
