The little boy had glue on his fingers and no father to hold up in front of the class, and the man sitting in the tiny plastic chair beside him was worth twelve billion dollars / Chapter 2 / 20

Chapter 2 - THE APPLICANTThree days later, the diner three blocks from Willow Lane smelled of grease, burnt sugar, and cheap pine cleaner.

Nora Vance sat in the back booth, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. It was 6:00 AM. Toby was asleep in the booth across from her, wrapped in his blanket with his thumb tucked loosely near his mouth. She had two hours before school started, four hours before her shift at the bakery, and approximately forty-two dollars left in her checking account until Friday.

The diner door chimed.

A man walked in. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He wore dark denim, a simple heather-grey crewneck sweater, and a jacket that looked worn but fit him with tailored precision. He looked out of place among the truckers and graveyard-shift nurses, but he didn't move like he was lost. He moved like a man who owned the air he breathed.

He looked around, spotted her booth, and walked straight over.

Nora froze. She recognized him instantly—the man from Gate 14 with the quiet voice and the impossibly expensive posture.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked, pointing to the edge of the booth opposite Toby.

"How did you find me?" Nora’s voice was instantly defensive, her fatigue vanishing behind a wall of maternal instinct. She shifted slightly, blocking Toby from view.

"Your shirt," Adrien said calmly, sliding into the vinyl seat. He didn't order coffee. He just set his hands on the table. "It had the logo for Willow Lane Bakery on the pocket. And the diner across the street from it is the only place open at 6:00 AM."

Nora stared at him. "Are you a cop? A private investigator? Did... did David send you?"

The name David came out of her mouth like a threat, sharp and bitter. Adrien caught the slight tremor in her hands before she tucked them beneath the table.

"I don't know who David is," Adrien said truthfully. "My name is Adrien. I’m looking for a house."

Nora blinked. "This is a diner."

"I know," Adrien said. "I bought the small carpenter’s cottage at the end of Willow Lane yesterday. Number 114. It needs work. A lot of work."

Nora knew 114 Willow Lane. It had sat vacant for five years—a small, weathered Craftsman house with a sagging porch and a yard overgrown with wild blackberries. "That place is a teardown."

"It has good bones," Adrien said softly. "But I don't know the neighborhood. And I need someone who can help me oversee the repairs, manage the suppliers, and keep an eye on the place while I... adjust to being here. I asked the owner of the bakery if she knew anyone trustworthy who needed extra hours. She gave me your name."

Nora’s mind raced. Mrs. Gable at the bakery was a sweet woman who knew Nora was drowning in debt. “He offered fifty dollars an hour, Nora,” she could almost hear Mrs. Gable saying.

"Fifty an hour," Adrien said, as if reading her thoughts. "Twenty hours a week. Cash or check, whatever you prefer. Flexible schedule."

Nora narrowed her eyes. "Why me? You don't know me. You saw me moping floors at an airport."

Adrien looked across the table at Toby, whose small shoulders rose and fell in steady rhythm. Then he looked back at Nora.

"You didn't ask me for money when your kid bumped into me," Adrien said quietly. "You apologized. And you work two jobs and still look at your son like he's the only thing in the world that matters. I can hire contractors, Nora. I can't hire people who care about where they are."

Nora swallowed hard. Fifty dollars an hour for twenty hours was a thousand dollars a week. It was her rent. It was Toby's new winter coat. It was the difference between drowning and holding her head above water.