Chapter 2 - Nobody At The Station Would Tell Me Who Had Used The PA
Station police took Jake and Cole away from the crowd.
Not in dramatic handcuffs.
Separate conversations first.
Statements.
Identification.
Then Jake started shouting about not knowing there was “no order,” which made everyone more interested in keeping him around.
I gave my name.
Declined medical attention.
Accepted an ice pack for my knee.
A station supervisor named Denise Harper approached afterward.
“Mr. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“I've been asked to take you to the operations level.”
“By the man on the speaker?”
Her expression told me she did not enjoy being in the middle.
“I was told someone there needs to speak with you.”
“Name?”
“He asked me not to give it.”
“Then I’m staying here.”
She looked surprised.
Good.
I sat on the bench Jake had shoved me into.
Denise stood there for a moment.
“You understand you were just attacked.”
“I noticed.”
“This person stopped it.”
“After it started.”
She couldn't argue.
I checked the anonymous messages again.
YOU CAME.
I DIDN’T KNOW SHE WOULD SEND THEM.
ASK HER WHY SHE TOLD ME YOU WERE DEAD.
My daughter had been twenty years old the last time I saw her.
If the anonymous man knew her now, he knew something I didn't.
I had spent years imagining Mara in different cities.
Different jobs.
Different versions of happiness.
I eventually stopped.
Not because I stopped wondering.
Because imagination can become a form of trespassing.
Denise sat two seats away.
“You know who this is about?”
“Maybe.”
“Family?”
“Maybe.”
She nodded.
Didn't push.
Better than most people.
My phone buzzed again.
I'M NOT READY TO COME DOWN.
I typed:
THEN I’M NOT GOING UP.
Three dots appeared.
Stopped.
Returned.
FAIR.
That irritated me.
I didn't want to like the answer.
Then:
DID YOU REALLY TRY TO TAKE ME FROM HER?
I stared.
Not "take her."
Take me.
My hand went cold around the phone.
I looked at Denise.
“How old is the man in operations?”
Her face changed.
She knew exactly who I meant now.
“I don't know who you’re talking to.”
“Yes, you do.”
She looked toward the restricted stairwell.
Then:
“Late twenties.”
My chest tightened.
I typed:
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
No response.
I tried again.
ARE YOU MARA’S SON?
The station speaker clicked.
People around us looked up.
The same male voice said:
“Walter, please don't say anything else through the phone.”
Then silence.
Denise closed her eyes.
“You're going to get me fired.”
“Not my intention.”
“You have no idea how this place works.”
“Apparently my family does.”
She stood.
“Come upstairs.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if he wants to ask whether I tried to take him from my daughter, he can look at me when I answer.”
Denise stared.
Then her radio buzzed.
She listened.
Her expression shifted.
“All right.”
“What?”
“He's coming down.”
I looked toward the operations staircase.
Nobody appeared.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
Travelers kept moving around us.
Jake and Cole were no longer visible.
A train emptied onto the concourse.
Hundreds of strangers crossed between me and the stairwell.
Then I saw a young man standing near the departure board.
Twenty-eight, maybe.
Dark hair.
Station employee badge clipped to his belt.
He wasn't looking at me.
Not directly.
But he had stopped walking.
My phone buzzed.
THAT’S ME.
I looked at him.
He finally looked back.
The shape of his eyes belonged to someone I had spent twenty-seven years trying not to remember every day.
Mara.
He approached slowly.
Stopped several feet away.
“My name is Noah.”
I stood.
My knee protested.
I ignored it.
“Noah what?”
His jaw tightened.
“Hayes.”
May you like
Mara had given him my name.
Just not my life.
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