Page 93 of Trusting Mr. Sterling
The building was a walk-up. Brick facade. Fire escapes rusting at the joints. The store had bars on the windows and a neon sign advertising lottery tickets. Gabriel looked up and counted floors.
Third floor. She had complained about the stairs once. Sixty-two steps from the street to their door. She had counted them every day for eight years.
This was where Tessa had grown up. Where she had learned that wanting something desperately didn’t make it appear. Where she had discovered that love wasn’t enough to keep the heat on, because that required money.
He walked into the store. The bell above the door chimed. Behind the counter, an older man with gray stubble looked up from his newspaper.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m just looking.”
The shelves were narrow, cramped, the prices marked in faded sticker labels. He moved through the aisles slowly, taking inventory. Single rolls of bathroom paper. Travel-sized everything. Small bags of rice. Individual cans of soup. Nothing in bulk. A person couldn’t stock up for tomorrow if they didn’t have money for today.
This was shopping when every dollar mattered. When you bought what you needed for tonight and hoped tomorrow would take care of itself.
He picked up a can of soup. Chicken noodle. Ninety-nine cents. Enough for one meal if you stretched it. Maybe two if you were creative.
“You buying or browsing?”
The man behind the counter was watching him.
“Do you remember a family?” Gabriel asked. “They would have lived upstairs about twenty years ago.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “Lots of families live upstairs.”
“The mother worked several jobs. The father, too. They had a daughter.”
“That describes half the building.”
“Her name was Tessa. Tessa Thorne. The mother was Carol.”
The man set the newspaper down. “Carol’s girl.”
“Yes.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Trying to be again.”
The man looked at him, took in the expensive coat Gabriel had forgotten to change out of, and the watch on his wrist that cost more than a month’s rent in the building above. He didn’t bother to hide the assessment.
“You’ll never understand,” the man said. Not unkindly. “Not from the outside looking in.”
“I know.”
He left the store and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the third-floor window. He pulled out his phone and typed.
Gabriel: I went to Avenue C today. Saw the building. I’m trying to understand what you survived to become who you are. I’m sorry it took me this long to try.
He hit send.
The message showed delivered, then read.
No response. But she had read it. That was something.
