"I run a criminal organization. Crime doesn't stop for holidays."
"Such excuses you have! Your cousin Dimitri, he runs bigger operation than you, he still makes time for family! He has wife! He has daughter! He brings them to Christmas!"
I count to three in Russian. It doesn't help. "Why are you calling me about this."
Silence.
This is worse than the yelling.
"Mama?"
"I maybe... tell everyone you are coming."
My eyes close. "I'm not coming."
"And maybe... I tell them you bring girlfriend."
I open my eyes very slowly. Outside my window, Vancouver continues existing. Inside my chest, something that might be panic stirs for the first time in twenty years.
"What."
"Don't use that voice with me! I am your mother! You treat me with respect!"
"What girlfriend."
"Well, I don't have name yet—"
"Mama—"
"—because you never tell me anything! You think I don't notice? Eleven months you go to same coffee shop! Eleven months! Same time every day! You think your mother is stupid? You think I don't see your face when you come home with coffee? You think—"
"I need coffee." My voice is flat. "It's a convenient location."
"Pah! You have espresso machine in kitchen! Five thousand dollar machine! You brew own coffee before you leave, then you go buy more coffee, then you come home with face like... like..." She searches for words. "Like man who sees purpose in life! Like you see something good!"
This is not happening.
She's right, of course. She's always right. I do have a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine. I do brew my own coffee every morning—perfect temperature, perfect grind, perfect ratio. And then I drive across the city to a mediocre coffee shop in a neighborhood I have no business being in, and I order a black coffee I don't need.
Because she's there.
Jemma Dean. Twenty-two years old. Social work degree from UBC, graduated with honors. Works opening shift Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at Bean & Leaf on Granville. Takes her break at 2:15 PM every shift, sits in the alley behind the shop and reads romance novels—the dark ones, with possessive men on the covers.
I know this because I've been watching her for eleven months.
Eleven months of large black coffee placed on the counter at exactly 8:47 AM. Eleven months of her smile when I walk in—genuine, warm, the kind that lights up her whole face. Not the polite version she gives other customers. I know the difference. I've catalogued the difference.
Eleven months of knowing she walks home via Davie Street, not Robson, because Robson has that coffee shop where her ex-boyfriend's roommate works and she'd rather add six minutes to her commute than risk running into him. That she lives alone in a 450-square-foot apartment in East Van that I've personally verified has adequate locks and a functional security system—and yes, I have keys. For emergencies. In case she needs help.
I know she keeps her apartment at 71 degrees. That she drinks chamomile tea before bed. That she rewatches the same comfort show when she's anxious—some British baking competition. I've verified the streaming history through entirely legal means.
Well. Mostly legal.
The background check was eight months ago. Necessary, I told myself. What if she had dangerous associates? What if someone was taking advantage of her? What if someone else noticed her?
Forty-seven thousand dollars in student loan debt. No family—parents died in a car accident when she was nineteen. Few close friends. Works too hard for too little money at a job that doesn't challenge her.
She needs someone to take care of her.
