Chapter 13 - Ninety Thousand Dollars
The newspaper called her an heiress before she'd managed to get her new identification card.
The reporter described a "mysterious transformation" in which a crime boss rescued a nameless woman and returned her to an established family. The article included a photograph of Wren entering Théo's salon, another picture of Iris at eighteen, and a list of old property transactions that suggested she might someday inherit considerable money. It said almost nothing about Celia Vale's music program. It said less about the years Wren had spent hungry.
Wren read it twice on the bus and folded the paper into a small square. She brought it to choir and used it to prop up a music stand with a broken foot.
"That's one use for it," Evelyn said, spotting the headline.
"It's not even good at this," Wren answered. "It keeps sliding."
Marcus wandered over. "Are you famous now?"
"No. I'm in the newspaper. Those aren't the same thing."
"My cousin's been in the newspaper for shoplifting," he said. "So I guess you're right."
They spent the next ten minutes fixing the stand with a washer from the maintenance drawer. Wren kept the newspaper wedge in her pocket. She didn't want a child to carry the story home under his music.
A week later she went back to Théo's salon by herself. She wore jeans, a clean winter coat, and the scarf Jo's daughter had chosen. The receptionist recognized her immediately and went pale.
"Can I help you?"
"I have an appointment with Jo. Three o'clock. I called yesterday."
"Of course. Yes."
Several clients glanced at her. The room smelled of citrus oil and hot styling tools, nothing like the first day when the air had seemed too sharp to breathe. Wren sat in the waiting area and leafed through a magazine. She could feel people's eyes, but they were only eyes. They couldn't make her stay or leave.
Jo came out wearing a new pair of shoes. "Look at you," she said.
"My hair's doing a weird thing at the back."
"Hair does weird things when it grows. Sit down."
Théo approached while Jo arranged her tools. He stopped at a respectful distance.
"I wanted to apologize," he said. "For what I said when you first came in."
Wren remembered him looking at her as though she were something carried in on a boot.
"You said you didn't take walk-ins," she replied.
"I said worse than that. I was rude, and the staff followed my lead."
"Then tell them," she said. "Not just me."
"I have. We're changing how we handle customers who need accommodations. Jo's leading the training."
Jo made a face. "Which means a lot of meetings before I get to cut anybody's hair."
"Are they paying you for the meetings?" Wren asked.
"Every hour," Jo said. "I'm not volunteering for that."
Wren laughed. Théo gave her a nod and moved away. No speeches. No grand offer of lifelong free services. She liked that better.
Jo trimmed the ends and worked around the tender skin with care. In the mirror Wren saw a woman who wasn't pretty in the way the newspapers had promised. She was thin and tired. Her hair stuck up over one ear. She had a scar and a deep crease between her brows. She also looked clean, comfortable, and present.
"That'll be forty," Jo said when they finished.
Wren blinked. "I thought you said twenty-five."
"You're right. I added the scalp treatment by mistake. Twenty-five."
Wren paid with her own card, still astonished by the ordinariness of it. On the sidewalk she opened her coat collar to the cold air, letting the wind move her hair without feeling it drag against her back.
Across town Adrian was meeting with attorneys about his security companies. The investigation into the ambush had led police to Voss's operation, and there were witnesses, communications, and business records to review. Some contracts Adrian had obtained years earlier looked bad under that attention. He was advised to be selective with his answers. He refused to lie, though he still listened when his lawyers explained which information was privileged and what the law actually required.
Marco, worn down by sleepless nights and the expectation that violence would always be the next solution, told Adrian he was leaving. He'd accepted a position managing building maintenance for a legitimate property firm.
"That's a pay cut," Adrian said.
"It's a sleep increase."
Adrian looked at him, waiting for the punchline.
"My kid's nine," Marco added. "She asked why my phone rings after bedtime. I told her it was business. She said maybe my business should go to bed too."
Adrian leaned back in his chair. "You should go."
"You sound happy to get rid of me."
"I'm trying not to make you apologize for leaving."
Marco picked up his jacket and took a long look around the office. They'd spent years convincing themselves that loyalty meant staying in the same room through every danger. Now leaving felt strangely more loyal.
"Take care of yourself," Marco said.
"You too."
After he left, Adrian walked to the window. He couldn't untangle his life in a single week, but he could stop pretending he had no choices. Several nightclub contracts were under review. He'd stopped using private intimidation to settle disputes and had accepted that his businesses could lose revenue or licenses while investigators did their work. He was not going to be congratulated for choosing belated decency. He didn't need to be.
Wren called him that evening. They hadn't spoken directly since the community-room meeting.
"I need to talk to you about the ninety thousand dollars," she said.
"Okay."
"Not over the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow somewhere normal?"
He nearly asked what normal meant to her. Instead he suggested a public café near the library.
"Good," she said. "And don't buy out the café."
"I won't."
"Or bring men in black coats."
"I won't."
She paused. "I'm still angry at you."
"I know."
May you like
"I can be angry and still want to talk."
Adrian looked at his silent office, at the chair Marco had left pushed halfway out. "I'm learning that," he said.
