Page 3 of Stolen Christmas
“That’s not what he calls it.”
“Wife,” he growls as her man or as I like to call him, father, opens the front door. I chuckle because I find them both insane.
“Coming,” she answers.
“How about you stop by for dinner?” she offers as I walk up to my father.
“Sounds good. Father and I need to have a conversation later, anyway.” We nod, a simple understanding between us. My butler, Maurizio, hands her coat to my father, who slips it on like the gentleman he is.
“Let’s go, Wife.” They open the door, and the damn wind gives us a blast of winter air.
“Shit, it’s freezing. Be safe,” I grumble.
“We will.”
I walk back to my office to finally get some work done while my chef brings me some lunch so I can get this chill off my bones.
Chapter Two
Angel
Damn it, could it get any colder? Of course it could. It’s not even January yet, and everyone in Chicago knows that means hell hasn’t frozen over yet. Taking the train is like accepting glass shards to the face if your scarf slips as you wait on an unsheltered part of the platform. Today, that person is unlucky me. I got there a minute too late. Now, I’m the unfortunate sap who has to stand on the edge, away from the warmth and safety of the enclosure. Ugh. Still, that means I have a better shot of getting on the train first. The rest have to burrow out of their warm huddle. The selfish assholes.
Anyway, I see the train lights coming so I keep my position, knowing everyone’s going to brave the last few seconds before it reaches the platform. They line up, trying to get on, but I’m not moving because the door will be somewhere right here, and when it comes to a stop, I’m getting my damn seat. I might have been freezing for five minutes, but I’m getting my hard, smelly, CTA seat inside the train that will be cramped in seconds.
The train stops, and the doors open at my feet. No one exits at my stop, so I hop right in and pick a corner seat. Quickly, people huddle in, and we head to the Loop. It’s crowded, but I pull out my tablet and start reading to kill the time and to avoid any strange eye contact. I’m not a people person. At least, not anymore. I have too many responsibilities to socialize. Now, it’s work, home, dinner, and Noah’s homework and chores, then repeat.
I arrive at work with three minutes to spare, swirling into my chair before my boss can see me and get on my case. Iwork in the administrative department of a local manufacturing company, performing data entry tasks. It isn’t terribly hard work, and the pay is decent.
I sit in my small cubicle, typing away as my boss constantly looks over my shoulder, trying to find something wrong with my work. I hate working for the man, but what can I do? College is the furthest thing from my mind these days. Dreams of a successful career in medicine seem to be a fleeting hope. I had a partial ride downstate, but that is no longer an option. My parents’ deaths left me with a brother to care for and no money to do it with. I’d just started this as a summer job before college when they were killed in a carjacking gone wrong on the Northside.
We have a small house that was paid off with my father’s insurance from work, but that’s it. I still have to pay taxes on everything, and the bills just to keep the small bungalow are insane. The house hasn’t been remodeled since the nineties and it needs a massive upgrade, but there is no room in my monthly budget.
My dad’s car had been left in the Northside, and it was totaled, so I was left with no vehicle, not that I wanted to drive it with the bad memories attached to it. Now, it’s a matter of getting to and from work or shopping on the bus every day, which sucks, but luckily, the grocery store is only a few blocks away.
It’s something I have to do on my way home from work a couple of times a week. We are out of bread, by the way, and I didn’t have a chance to go to the store yesterday. I made a small list on the train before I got to work so I wouldn’t forget. My boss isn’t the nice kind when it comes to me. He’s always on me, watching my every move.
I take off my outerwear and hang up my coat on the hook behind me after pressing the power button on my computer. It loads as I take a seat behind my desk. I log in and take off the straight-to-voicemail on my desk phone. For a cubicle, it’s not bad. I’ve only been here for six months, and most of my coworkers are friendly.
The only rough spot is my superior, Mr. Cochran. He’s a real dick. He busts my ass about everything, and I have been a model employee. He’s had it out for me since the moment I started working here. A shadow casts over the cubicle wall.
“You’re pushing the clock, Ms. Scott,” Mr. Cochran says. My eyes roll so hard, I nearly strain them.
“Yes, well, my start time is nine, and I couldn’t log in until then,” I answer without turning to face him. He doesn’t deserve my attention since I have work to do. The number of files on my desk doubled right before I left yesterday, and I was told I had to finish them by the end of today.
“Yes, but what if your computer isn’t working properly?” he adds, as if that’s my problem. Even if I arrived early, that wouldn’t change anything because it would take the IT department a good half hour to get me up and running, and I still wouldn’t start at nine. The only person wasting their time would be me.
“Then wouldn’t that be a company issue? I don’t work in IT.”
“That kind of smart talk is the reason we don’t hire kids.” I want to tell him to fuck off, but that’s an almost guaranteed fire, but thankfully, I’m blessed by a phone call. Who knew that getting a complaint early in the morning sounded awesome?
“Excuse me, sir. I have a call.” I pick up the line and take a call from a customer with an issue before I’ve fully gottensettled. Mercifully, the call takes too long for him, so he walks away. A little while later, I’m halfway through my morning and I’ve managed to finish all the files and turn them in. I’m about to return to my desk, only to get a call from the Chicago Police Department.
“Hello, may I speak with Ms. Angel Scott?” The voice on the other end sends a chill up my spine; it’s cool, calm, formal, and everything I remember from six months ago. My chest tightens, and my throat dries up.
“Speaking,” I answer. The single word struggles to find its way out.
“This is Officer Anthony Fields.”
