Morning gave me enough time to get my ducks in a row. D’Angelo Tower shouldn’t take too long to get to. My cell pings, and I see the text from my bank. It isn’t good.
Fraud Alert. Suspicious Activity. Card Locked
Keeping my cool, I call to explain that I’ve been traveling, and it’s really me that’s been using my card. When the agent goes through the necessary security measures to confirm my identity, he begins to list off the transactions, and I agree line by line. But when we get to the charges in Illinois, it all goes wrong.
“Eight-hundred and sixty dollars at Neiman Marcus in Chicago.”
“What? No!”
“One thousand dollars at Saks Fifth Avenue in Chicago.”
“Oh, my God. I don’t have that kind of money.” The room spins as panic consumes me.
“It’s all right,” the agent says, calming me a little. “There are a few more on here.”
“A few more?” I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Don’t worry. We monitor spending behavior. And we’ll work with the stores to investigate. In the meantime, we’ll remove them from your account.”
My breathing slows. “Really?”
“Yes. Can you check if the card is in your possession?”
I check my wallet. I thumb through every pocket of it, over and over. My search comes up empty. “It’s gone. I remember putting it in the pump.” My first gas station in Chicago. “I paid at the pump. Maybe I dropped it. I went to use the bathroom. When I returned, a black car was waiting to use the pump, so I hurried to free up the space.”
I only remember the car because if a car could glare with impatience, this one did.
Again, his tone is even, settling my nerves as he tries to make me feel better. “Even if you had it, it’s compromised. With it gone, you can also file a police report. And we’ll send you a new one.”
Crap. That means I have exactly five hundred dollars to my name, the extent of my savings.
“Can you confirm the address we have for you on file.”
“I’m not in North Carolina. I’m visiting a friend in Chicago. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” I say because honestly, going home has always been my safety net. The Windy City isn’t exactly a long-term plan.
“We can hold off on sending you a card until you’re sure. Or we can overnight it for a small fee.”
When he tells me the fee for overnighting it, I decline. With Aunt Grace, I don’t have to worry about a hotel room. But I can’t rely on her for everything, and every penny counts since at the present time, I’m unemployed. And this is Chicago. The twelfth most expensive city in the US, according to Alexa.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Palmer?” he asks.
Not unless you can find my father. “No, thank you,” I say politely through a fog of disappointment. I hadn’t planned to use my small line of credit, but it was my backup plan if I needed to stay longer. As it is, my options are to stay until my savings disintegrate, or find a job.
I grab the newspaper and flip it right side up. They’re looking to hire, and I need employment. It wouldn’t hurt to drop by. Check out the job, and while I’m at it, see if anyone recognizes him from his picture.
And just like that, the stranger in the photo has my attention. Mom never talked about my father, if this man is my father, except to say he was a bad man. But that never kept me from wondering about him. That secret childhood fantasy of him showing up out of the blue and knowing me by nothing more than the look in my eyes because that’s how connected we are. Hope begins to bloom in my chest.
But the longer I stare at him the longer I wonder. What if that connection isn’t there? What if he doesn’t miss me? Or want me? Or . . . love me?
I’ve always believed deep down in my soul that he would be someone that I would love. But what if Mom was right? What if he is a bad man—an evil man—and all this time, she kept him out of my life for a reason?
Or, what if it’s me who doesn’t love him? What if I can’t love him because I can’t trust him . . . because how can you trust someone who would give you up and let you go?
I need answers. And right now, those answers are in D’Angelo Tower.
By the time I’m done filing the police report and feeling absolutely foolish for bringing up the black car at the gas station, my afternoon is shot. I try to race to D’Angelo Tower, but it isn’t until I’m in the middle of the heart of Chicago that I realize most of the downtown is bumper-to-bumper congestion. And there is no parking anywhere. Welcome to the big city.
D’Angelo Tower is a monument of glass that takes up an entire city block. One which I’ve circled three times already. But when a swanky town car pulls out from the front of the building, I pull in and park.
I blow out an anxious breath and glance again at the photo, though there’s no need. I’ve memorized every line and curve of both their faces. But looking at them helps steel my nerves.
I take another look at myself in the rearview mirror, mostly to see if crazy-hair lady has it under control. Instead of focusing on getting my thick waves in check, a chill pricks down my spine as the mirror reveals a black sedan parked several cars back. It reminds me of the one from the gas station. The one that waited behind me even with other pumps open. Not that that means anything. Maybe their gas tank was only on that side.
Nevertheless, I squint hard. There’s no way to make out the license plate from here, not that it would make a difference. It’s not like I memorized it. I remind myself that black cars are common. And the odds of the same car following me after they grabbed my credit card are a billion to one. Impossible, right?
A knock at the window startles me. A policeman.
Relieved, I release a sigh and roll down the window. “Everything all right, Officer?”
“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. But you can’t park here.”
He points to the sign just above my car. The bold red lettering makes the reserved—no parking really stand out. I have no excuse.
“There’s public parking in several garages.” He points up ahead, and a big blue sign with a P is a stone’s throw away.
The name on his tag aptly reads friendly, which makes me grin.
“Is your name really Friendly?”
He nods, and his smile widens, creasing his face in a charming way that seems to suit him. “Guilty as charged.”
Out of options, I plead my case, clasping my hands together because the only alternative in this situation is to beg. “Please. I swear, I’ll only be twenty minutes. Half an hour at most. I promise you I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t very, very important.” Because where I’m from, no parking sign or not, half the time I can at least get a small reprieve to rush in and out if I ask nicely.
He leans in, genuine as he says, “I believe you. Very, very important. But is it very, very important enough to get your car towed? Not by me, mind you. I’d never do that to a fellow Southerner.” He turns up his drawl. Texas, I think. “But there’s a whole team whose very existence seems to rest on how happy they can keep all the grumpy executives. I’m pretty sure there’s a running bet on how fast the tow truck shows up. I’ve seen it happen about a dozen times this week. But the garages aren’t too far.”
Frowning, I can see the big parking sign from here, and the words under it. credit card only.
“Hey,” he says, his once-over of my well-worn car giving him pause. Obviously, I’m a hard-luck case. “If you need cash for the garage—”
A tangle of appreciation and embarrassment swirls inside me as he fishes his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, ready to hand over a little cash.
“No, it’s not that. I have cash, but my credit card was stolen this morning,” I say, and his worried frown prompts me to add, “I already filed a report.”
He wrinkles his brow. “New card coming?”
I nod, not bothering to explain that it will be . . . once I figure out where to send it to.
I take another glance at the rearview mirror, letting idle curiosity, or anxiety, get the best of me. The ominous black car is gone, replaced by a brightly colored delivery truck.
My sigh of relief is silly as I turn back to the officer. “I’ve circled the building several times already, trying to find anywhere that takes cash.”
“Oh, no problem. Go past the first three garages. The last one on the right takes cash.”
Grateful, I nod.
“And you might wanna get a move on,” Officer Friendly says, “because the Tower closes soon.”
It’s barely four. “But I thought it didn’t close until six.”
“Renovations. But they’ll have regular hours tomorrow.”
The cop gives me a reassuring salute and taps the hood of the car, the universal symbol for move it along.
My stomach knots when I recheck the time, determined that if I don’t get there today, I’ll come back tomorrow. Though the thought of entering this kind of traffic of my own free will is enough to make me never, ever want to drive here again.
I head out into traffic, being careful not to hit the random pedestrian as Officer Friendly continues waving back. The parking garage I’m looking for may be less than two blocks away, but with traffic moving slower than molasses, I’ll be lucky to get back by New Year’s.
My heart pounding, I monitor the rush-hour gridlock, and the many pedestrians taunting me as they proceed to kick my ass, gaining by leaps and bounds along the sidewalk. Yeah, I’d be fast, too, if I hopped the curb and used the sidewalk. Tempting. Very tempting.
A year later, I finally make it past the three upscale parking garages that only take credit cards, finding a sketchy-looking parking garage and a questionably sober attendant who does indeed take cash. The sign on his booth reads no attendant past six.
Note to self. Get back to my car well before dark.