WITH
By the time Nell left room 14, her father had forgotten the pastries.
He had forgotten that she had poured his water.
He had forgotten asking who she was.
But Nell remembered every second.
She stood outside the long-term care facility with both hands buried in the pockets of her coat while the December wind moved through the bare trees lining the road.
Forty-one dollars.
That was how much she was short.
Forty-one dollars was not ruin.
Not by itself.
It was one prescription delayed.
Three bus rides walked instead of ridden.
Two meals replaced by coffee.
Forty-one dollars was the kind of amount wealthy people lost beneath couch cushions and poor people rearranged entire weeks around.
Nell began walking toward the bus stop.
Across the city, Carmine Orsini opened her personnel file.
There were only nine pages.
He read all nine.
Nell Brisco.
Twenty-seven.
No criminal record.
No previous addresses listed before three years earlier.
Two prior employers, both small private households.
Both references had been given by telephone numbers that no longer worked.
Her emergency contact section was blank.
Her education line said only high school.
Her tax paperwork was ordinary.
Her wage deduction was not.
Carmine stopped at the court case number.
“Benny.”
Benny Santino looked up from the chair opposite the desk.
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
Benny leaned over.
“Court-ordered medical repayment, looks like.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Benny waited.
Carmine tapped the case number.
“Why is there a court number attached to a wage deduction for long-term care?”
Benny took the folder.
“I can find out.”
“Do that.”
Carmine reached for the next page.
Then he stopped again.
At the bottom of the employment verification form was a former surname.
Fontaine.
His fingers remained still.
Benny had already reached the door.
“Wait.”
He turned.
Carmine looked again.
“Nell Brisco used to be Nell Fontaine.”
Benny shrugged slightly.
“Could be a marriage.”
“She’s unmarried.”
“Divorce?”
“No.”
Carmine closed the folder.
The name was familiar.
Not because he knew Nell.
Because he knew New Orleans.
Fontaine Bakery had once stood on Dauphine Street.
Twenty years earlier, people had lined up before sunrise for sweet rolls, praline bread, and pecan pies sold in shallow brown boxes tied with white string.
Carmine had been a boy the last time he entered it.
His mother had taken him there after church.
He remembered polished glass cases.
The smell of browned butter.
A tall man behind the counter.
And a pie his grandmother had declared was the only pecan pie in New Orleans worth paying for.
The bakery had closed abruptly.
Carmine had not thought about it in years.
“Find out who owned Fontaine Bakery.”
Benny stared at him.
“You know how long ago that place closed?”
“Yes.”
“You want records from twenty years ago because a maid baked you dessert?”
Carmine looked at him.
Benny adjusted his coat.
“I’ll find the records.”
At 5:47 that evening, Nell returned to the boarding house.
There was a black sedan parked across the street.
She noticed it immediately.
For three years, she had trained herself to notice unfamiliar cars.
Different shoes outside apartment doors.
People who looked twice.
Questions asked casually.
The sedan was clean, expensive, and impossible to mistake for anything belonging to the neighborhood.
Nell continued walking.
She did not look toward it again.
Inside, she climbed two flights of narrow stairs and unlocked her room.
The room contained one bed, one dresser, one chair, and a hot plate the landlady technically did not permit.
Nell removed her coat.
Then she stood completely still.
Someone had moved the flour tin.
Most people would never have noticed.
It remained on the same shelf.
It remained beside the sugar.
But Nell always turned the flower painted on its side toward the wall.
Now it faced outward.
She crossed the room slowly.
She opened the tin.
Flour.
Nothing else.
She checked beneath the mattress.
The envelope was still there.
Inside were thirty-eight dollars, her father’s facility bill, and one photograph.
The photograph showed a bakery.
Three people stood outside it.
Emmett Fontaine was twenty years younger and considerably heavier.
Beside him stood Nell at fourteen.
The third person had been cut away.
Not torn.
Cut.
Carefully.
Nell returned the picture to the envelope.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
A knock came at the door.
Three slow knocks.
Nell reached for the kitchen knife beside the hot plate.
“Who is it?”
“Benny Santino.”
Her hand tightened.
Of all the names she expected, that was not one.
She opened the door four inches.
Benny stood in the hallway holding nothing.
“No gun,” he said.
“That’s a strange thing to announce.”
“In my profession, it saves time.”
“What do you want?”
“Boss wants to talk to you.”
“I work tomorrow.”
“He knows.”
