“Where can I find her?”
“Was it Thomas who sent you? Are you from the police?” Her distrustful look and the conflicting information bring two certainties to me instantly: she’s protective of Olívia, and this Thomas fellow has something to do with her losing her job.
“I’m not from the police. Just a regular customer. What happened?”
She shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and almost imperceptibly glances behind her. I follow the same path and notice a surveillance camera typical in commercial establishments.
The woman is probably afraid someone might overhear our conversation.
“You can tell me.”
“The manager fired her,” she says, her tone lower than before. “It’s been a few days already.”
“Why?”
“He accused her of stealing money from the register. I wasn’t here, but I overheard some customers talking about it.”
“Do you think the accusation has any merit?” My intuition tells me it doesn’t. From everything I know about her so far, Olívia seems like a good girl, but I need to be sure.
“No way. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, he lied.”
“Where can I find her?” I repeat my earlier question.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to help her. If you care about her, you should tell me how I can find her. Maybe I can get her a new job.”
“What kind of job?”
As much as it annoys me to be questioned, I can’t help but admire the woman’s loyalty. “Something similar to what she did here,” I respond to reassure her because she’s entirely transparent. I can see in her face exactly what she was thinking about the kind of job I had to offer.
Finally, she seems convinced, and after grabbing a piece of paper near the cash register, she takes a pen from her apron pocket and draws something. “I don’t know the building number, but it’s very close by. I’ve drawn a map of how you can get there.”
“Thank you.”
I thought the place she worked was dangerous, but nothing compares to the building she lives in. There’s nothing arrogant in my judgment; it’s just a matter of fact.
The area must be eerie at night, and I wonder about that tiny person walking these dark streets in the dead of night.
How long has she been living here? Since her mother passed away? These details weren’t in the report.
A huge sense of unease washes over me.
Of course, I’m aware of social disparities, but this place is a step beyond just lacking security. The entire facade of the building is peeling, and some windowpanes are broken and patched up with silver duct tape. There’s an old man who must be at least two hundred years old, dressed in what appears to be several coats layered on top of each other, as the thinness of his face doesn’t match the volume of his body.
A small pot, a teddy bear, a flashlight, and various other items are attached to his clothing. It’s as if he’s a walking thrift store. He smokes and gazes at the street with boredom, and a skinny stray dog lies at his feet.
He’s right at the entrance of the building, and as I approach, he stares at me, though he still seems detached. “A little help for an old, tired man, sir?”
“Do you know a girl who lives in this building? She has long hair and very fair skin.”
“Are you talking about Snow White? Olívia. The ray of sunshine.”
Once again, I confirm what I had quickly noticed on the first day I saw her, as well as in the interaction I had with the girl: Olívia leaves a trail of admirers wherever she goes. “That’s her.”
“And what do I get in return? It’s valuable information you’re asking for.”
More irritated than I usually am, I pull out my wallet and take out a hundred-dollar bill. Instead of handing it over, though, I just wave it in front of his face. “Don’t play games with me,” I warn as I begin to climb the stairs of the building.
