Chapter 4 - The Sound of Broken Glass
I climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to my third-floor apartment with my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage, damp insulation, and stale cigarette smoke. When I reached apartment 3B, I gently unlocked the door.
The bolt clicked.
Inside, the single lamp on the small laminate side table was on, casting a dim, amber light across our twenty-foot living room.
On the threadbare sofa, wrapped in a faded blue fleece blanket with cartoon rocket ships, was my Eli. His thick dark hair was tousled from sleep, his long eyelashes resting against his pale cheeks. Resting on his chest was a heavy hardcover book: *The Aqueducts of Ancient Rome*.
Beside him, nodding off in the mismatched armchair, sat Mrs. Higgins, her hands folded over her floral apron.
At the sound of the latch, Mrs. Higgins’s eyes fluttered open. She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose and offered me a weary, relieved smile.
“Oh, Clara, love. You’re late. The trains again?”
“Something like that,” I whispered, stepping inside and quietly locking the three deadbolts behind me. I set the heavy paper bag on the small kitchen counter. The smell of roasted chicken immediately drifted through the tiny apartment.
Mrs. Higgins sniffed the air, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. What did they feed those fancy people tonight?”
“Herb-roasted chicken,” I said, walking over and kissing the top of Eli’s warm forehead. He stirred, his little nose twitching at the scent of food. “Yukon potatoes. Buttered green beans. Rolls.”
“Mercy,” she murmured, hauling herself to her feet with a sharp groan from her knees. “You eat some of that, girl. You look like a ghost.”
I pulled my worn wallet from my bag and slid five crumpled dollar bills into her palm. It was almost everything I had left. “Thank you, Mrs. Higgins. Truly.”
She looked down at the money, then reached out and tucked it back into my coat pocket. “Keep it tonight, Clara. Pay me when the hotel checks clear. Buy the boy some decent shoes. His sneakers are talking to the floorboards.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes. “Mrs. Higgins, please, you need—”
“I need you to survive, Clara. Arthur was a good man. You’re a good mother. Now feed that boy before the gravy gets cold.”
She patted my arm and slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her.
I leaned against the door for a second, letting the exhaustion wash over me.
*Ten thousand a month.*
*An apartment in the carriage house.*
*Venetian trade ledgers with names hidden in the margins.*
It was madness. Gabriel Hart was the undisputed king of the city’s underworld. Taking his money wasn't just accepting a job; it was stepping across a line from which there was no return. If the police came, if his rivals struck, if I found something in those ledgers that I wasn't supposed to see...
Suddenly, Eli stirred.
His dark eyes opened, blinking against the amber light. He looked at me, rubbing his nose with the back of his pajama sleeve.
“Mom?”
“Hey, bug,” I said softly, walking over to the couch and kneeling down beside him. “Did I wake you?”
“I was dreaming about arches,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. Then his eyes drifted toward the counter. He sat up straight. “Mom. What is that?”
“Dinner.”
“Real dinner? Not the powder soup?”
“Real dinner,” I said, smiling through the lump in my throat. “Herb chicken. Crispy skin.”
Eli scrambled off the couch, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum. He stood on his tiptoes to peer into the container as I opened the lid. The steam rose, carrying the savory aroma into the air.
“Mom,” he whispered, his eyes wide as saucers. “Did a king give you this?”
I hesitated, the memory of Gabriel’s cold, slate-gray eyes flashing through my mind.
“Something like that, Eli. Something like that.”
I sat with him at our tiny two-chair table, watching him eat with a ravenous joy that made my chest ache. I ate a piece of chicken and a roll, the flavors rich and buttery, completely out of place in our crumbling apartment.
Just as Eli was finishing his third roasted potato, a sharp, violent crash echoed from the street below.
Glass shattered.
Eli froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.
Then came a harsh, shouting voice from the alley right outside our window—a voice I recognized with chilling clarity.
“Clara! Open the damn door!”
It was Mark.
My ex-husband. Eli’s father. The man who had cleaned out our joint savings account five years ago, left us with a mountain of gambling debt, and disappeared into the shadows of the South Side.
May you like
And he had found us.
***