The CEO and Her Daughter's Secret Father novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Math

Joaquin works his first night shift under a false name and does the arithmetic on a child's drawing; Ximena lies to his face, and Escamilla's office calls to say the Cardinal is coming Thursday to sign.

I put Luz to bed at eight and was back in the dispatch office by nine.

I told myself I was checking the night roster.

Dell Haverford came through the door at 8:58 with his badge already clipped to his jacket.

"Early," I said.

"Habit."

"The shuttle is a yard truck with a bad clutch. Fifteen miles an hour inside the fence. If you hit a trailer, you pay for the paint."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am."

"Ms. Arriaga."

"Ximena is fine. Everybody in the yard uses it."

I regretted that the moment it left my mouth.

He heard the regret, and something in his face agreed with it.

"Ms. Arriaga," he said again, gently, and took the keys out of my hand.

His fingers brushed my palm, and the whole warm, ruined motel room went through me from my wrist to my knees.

He smelled of diesel and cheap soap.

I stepped back so fast I hit the corner of the counter.

He pretended not to see that, which was a kindness I did not want.

"My mother sent this," I said, and pushed a foil plate across to him.

"Your mother thinks I'm a tire."

"She thinks you're a hungry tire. Eat."

He lifted the foil, and the steam rose.

He looked at the enchiladas.

"You really did hire me in four minutes."

"Nobody applies for nights twice in four years unless they need the work."

"I need the work."

"Then work."

He nodded and put the plate on the desk.

That was when he saw the wall.

Luz had taped her drawings above the radio, a row of crayon trucks with six wheels each and one giant sun.

The newest sat at the end of the row, in marker, with the paper still curling at the corners.

It showed a long red truck and a tall woman with white scribbled hair.

Beside them stood a small girl with two black puffs and an old woman with a cane.

And a fourth grown-up figure in a hat, standing at the edge of the page.

His eyes had been colored in with a bright, solid yellow.

Under the figure, in her teacher's careful print, someone had written the name Luz had dictated.

NEW MAN.

He stood in front of it a very long time.

I should have taken it down.

Instead I watched the muscle in his jaw move once, twice, and then go still.

"How old is she?"

"Four. Saturday."

"Saturday." He said it to the wall.

"She's mine, Haverford. You don't need to count on your fingers."

"Whose is she?"

"I told you. Mine."

He turned around then, and the eyes were exactly the color of the marker.

"That wasn't my question."

I held his gaze and made my voice as flat as the yard floor.

"Her father was a man I met one night, a long time ago. I never saw him again."

"Did he know?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he left before breakfast and didn't leave a number."

That was the true half.

The other half stood in my chest, and I kept my face still around it.

"Then he's a fool," he said.

"He's a driver. Drivers move."

"Not that one."

"You don't know him."

"No," he said. "I guess I don't."

The radio crackled, and the night dispatcher called from the supply room.

Neither of us moved.

His hand had closed around the shuttle keys until his knuckles were white.

"I'd like the back row," he said at last. "The old trailers behind Warehouse B. Fewer people."

"Why?"

"I sleep better where it's quiet."

"You don't sleep. You drive."

"Then I drive better."

I knew exactly which trailer sat in the back row, rusting, with its papers untouched since my father died.

I knew he knew it too.

"Back row," I said. "Fifteen miles an hour."

"Understood."

He took the plate and the keys and walked out into the dark.

I stood alone beside Luz's drawing with my arms wrapped around myself.

At 10:40 my cell rang on the counter.

The screen read ESCAMILLA FRESH IMPORTS.

I answered on speaker, because both my hands were busy taking Luz's drawing off the wall.

"Ms. Arriaga," said a pleasant young voice. "Mr. Escamilla regrets the late hour."

"What does Mr. Escamilla regret?"

"He won't wait for the board's email. He will come to Arriaga Freight himself on Thursday at ten to sign, in person."

"The board has not agreed to anything."

"He asks that every member be in the room."

The call ended.

When I turned around, Dell was standing in the open doorway with his cap in his hand.

He had come back for it.

He had heard that name, and he had gone as still as a man listening for a second shot.

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