Page 3 of No One But Me
I set the chalk down. Wiped my palms on my jeans. The dampness wouldn't come off—nervous sweat mixing with the rain I'd tracked in earlier.
The storage room window remained dark. That shadow—if it had ever been real—was gone now. Probably wandered off ten minutes ago while I stood here inventing threats out of nothing.
I didn't believe in fairy tales. Especially not beasts.
The rational part of my brain knew this. Understood it. Accepted it as fact.
But my hands kept shaking, anyway.
My phone buzzed against the register counter. The screen lit up.
Dad.
I swiped to answer before the second ring. Always did.
"Hey."
"Belle. You still at the store?" His voice came through thin and reedy, each word measured like he was rationing breath. That wheeze underneath—I'd learned to track it like a barometer. Tonight it sat high in his chest, tight and wet.
"Just closing up. What's going on?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just checking in." A pause. The sound of him shifting, fabric rustling against the phone. "How was today? Good crowd?"
The lie formed automatically. "Yeah. Pretty steady. Sold three hardcovers this afternoon."
"Good. That's good." He believed it. Or pretended to. Hard to tell anymore which version of Dad showed up on these calls—the one who'd built a construction company from nothing, or the shell who'd gambled it into dust. "Listen, about what we discussed. The bank situation."
My jaw tightened. "Dad?—"
"It's being handled. I talked to Jim yesterday, he's working with the lender. We've got options." Each sentence came with a pause, like climbing stairs. "Just takes time. Paperwork. You know how these things go."
I didn't. Not really. He'd kept me out of it until the damage was done, until his "opportunities" and "sure things" had carved holes too deep to hide. The store's loan was in my name. The liability sat on my shoulders. But the mistakes? Those were his.
"How much time?"
"Couple weeks. Maybe less." His breathing hitched. A cough he tried to muffle. "Don't worry about it."
"Have you eaten today?"
"What? Yeah. Earlier. Had some—" He trailed off. Couldn't even finish the lie. "Belle, I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Just a cold. Happens." More rustling. The creak of his recliner—the one piece of furniture he'd refused to sell when the bank took the house. "I don't want you worrying about me. You've got enough on your plate."
I pressed my palm against the counter. "Let me come by tomorrow. Bring groceries."
"No need. I'm stocked up."
"Dad."
"I mean it." Firmer now. That stubborn edge I knew too well. The same pride that wouldn't let him declare bankruptcy. Wouldn't let him take my help when the medical bills started piling up. Wouldn't let him admit he'd bet everything on land deals and development projects that existed only in some con artist's imagination. "You focus on that store. Make it work. That's what matters."
What mattered was him not dying alone in that apartment, too proud to ask his daughter for help.
"Things are being handled," he repeated. "Trust me."
I'd trusted him before. Watched him turn Mom's insurance money into promises and those promises into ash.
