Page 41 of On the Shelf

There it was—the old reflex. One hard week and he was already scoping the exit and tying his shoes.

Chuck downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp as his phone buzzed with a text from Niall.

Winnie wanted me to tell you good night. She says don’t forget about the chess rematch tomorrow.

His breath caught and his knee bounced under the table. He typed back, Tell her I’m looking forward to it. Sweet dreams to both of you.

The reply came almost immediately. We miss you already. Is that pathetic?

Chuck read it twice, grinning at the phone like a fool. Not pathetic. I miss you too.

Good. See you tomorrow?

Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Chuck typed.

He put the phone down and leaned back in his chair, wondering what certainty felt like.

Could he turn down a career to flip pancakes for a nine-year-old in sparkly batwings? All he wanted was to be back at Niall’s table doing exactly that, to sit in the branches of the crazy tree he built with them, for them.

Chuck stood up, suddenly restless. He needed to finish her treehouse at least. Needed to find out for Niall and Winnie if he meant what he said—that he was staying, that they could count on him.

The moment he reached for his keys, his phone rang again—not Lloyd this time, but a number he didn’t recognize. Frowning, Chuck answered.

“Mr. Mitchum?” The voice was unfamiliar, female, with the crisp efficiency of someone used to giving orders.

“Speaking.”

“This is Helen Yao. Winnie’s grandmother.”

Chuck froze as his hackles rose. “Mrs. Yao. How did you get my number?”

“Small town,” she said dismissively. “I’d like to meet with you tomorrow. Alone. Regarding your… involvement with my son-in-law and granddaughter.”

The implication was clear—this wasn’t a social call, but a warning.

“I’m pretty busy tomorrow,” Chuck hedged, already dreading whatever confrontation she had planned.

“Make time.” She did not phrase it as a question either time. “Noon, at the Grand Occidental Hotel. I’ll be in the restaurant.” She paused, then added with deceptive mildness, “I think you’ll find what I have to say quite… compelling.”

Before Chuck could respond, she hung up, leaving him staring at his phone with a growing sense of dread.

Whatever Winnie’s grandmother wanted to discuss, it couldn’t be good. And whatever she thought she knew about him, about his relationship with Niall and Winnie, it was clearly enough to concern her—enough to prompt this ambush.

Chuck spent the next morning in Lydia’s garage cutting rail stock two weeks ahead of when he’d theoretically need it. Hard medicine there because a saw makes too much noise for thinking.

Money like the Yaos’ never shouted. Two calls and a contractor’s license renewal sat in a drawer for eleven months. The footage of a table going over in a council chamber ended up on CNN. Helen had already come by the store once to have a looky-loo. Nobody makes that drive twice to stretch their legs. This was uglier than a protective impulse off the leash.

The cedar receipt curled on the dash, four hundred and change of his own money. On Niall’s kitchen table a chessboard sat mid-game, waiting on a rematch. Winnie had a shoebox of fabric leaves under the register and no branches to hang them from.

He took the highway at eleven-forty. At the junction, the northbound sign came up green through the fog, Monte Vela Street and everything past it, and Chuck held his speed and let it go by.

The Ox stood at the hotel gates with sixty years of gull mess down its shoulders. Chuck parked, worked a shop rag over his knuckles, got the tar out of the creases and none of it from under the nails, and gave up.

At the front desk, a sturdy dude in a blazer knew exactly who he was meeting. The hotel manager’s nametag said KIT, and to his credit, he made no small talk as he walked Chuck across the faded carpet through the musty pong of lemon polish and overcooked prime rib.

Kit nodded and left him alone in the vast dining room where three tables were occupied out of forty.

Helen Yao had taken the corner booth beneath a mural of the Grand Ox himself—eight feet of painted bull mincing across a creek, painted by some WPA jerk who’d never been on a ranch, let alone eaten a steak.