Chapter 4 - The Woman She Used to Be
The first interview terrified me more than leaving Nico.
That realization embarrassed me.
I sat outside a glass conference room wearing a navy blazer Elena had lent me and stared at my reflection in the polished wall.
No diamonds.
No driver downstairs.
No assistant confirming my schedule.
No Nico.
Just me.
The company was called Hartwell Studio, a mid-sized design and urban redevelopment firm with offices in Chicago, Minneapolis, and Milwaukee.
I had applied for a project coordinator position.
Technically, it was below the level I had reached before leaving the industry.
I didn’t care.
A woman in her forties stepped into the reception area.
“Norah Bennett?”
I stood.
“I’m Claire Hartwell.”
We shook hands.
Her grip was firm.
“So,” she said as we entered the conference room, “three-year employment gap.”
There it was.
I had rehearsed twelve explanations.
Family obligations.
Personal sabbatical.
Independent consulting.
Health break.
All technically vague enough to avoid lying.
Instead I surprised myself.
“I lost sight of my career.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“That honest?”
“I’m trying something new.”
She smiled slightly.
“Continue.”
“I was in a relationship that became the center of my life. Nobody forced me to leave the industry. I made a series of choices that seemed reasonable at the time, and eventually I looked around and realized I had stopped building anything that belonged to me.”
Claire said nothing.
“So I understand the gap is a concern. I’m rusty. I’ll need to update some software skills. But the work I did before that gap is real, and I’m willing to earn my way back.”
Claire closed the résumé.
“You know most candidates lie about gaps.”
“I nearly did.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m tired of editing myself.”
The interview lasted forty-nine minutes.
When I left, I had no idea whether I had succeeded.
But on the sidewalk outside, breathing winter air, I felt something unfamiliar.
Pride.
Not because I got the job.
I hadn’t.
Because I entered a room alone and spoke as myself.
My phone rang.
For half a second I feared Nico.
Instead, it was Claire.
I turned back toward the glass tower.
“You forgot something?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “A start date.”
I stopped walking.
“What?”
“You’re overqualified for coordinator, but under-current for senior management. I’m offering you project coordinator for ninety days with review after that. Salary’s in the email.”
My throat tightened.
“Claire—”
“Monday, if you want it.”
“Yes.”
“Good. And Norah?”
“Yes?”
“Bring that honesty Monday. We have enough polished nonsense here already.”
The call ended.
I stood in the middle of downtown Chicago smiling like an idiot.
Elena screamed when I told her.
“You got it?”
“I got it.”
“We’re celebrating.”
“I have forty-two dollars available for celebration.”
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Norah.”
“I said I’m rebuilding.”
“You can rebuild while eating tacos I purchase.”
I considered.
“That seems architecturally sound.”
We met that evening at a small Mexican restaurant.
I ordered too much food.
We laughed.
For two hours, I barely thought about Nico.
That changed when I walked home.
A gray sedan was parked across from my building.
I had seen it that morning.
I stopped.
The engine was running.
For years, proximity to Nico had trained instincts I wished I didn’t possess.
Cars mattered.
Faces mattered.
Who stayed too long mattered.
I kept walking.
Didn’t look again.
Entered the building.
Locked my door.
Then called the only person I knew who could identify whether I was imagining things.
Arthur answered.
“Norah.”
“You have someone following me?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Nico?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“He canceled surveillance yesterday.”
My stomach tightened.
“There’s a gray sedan outside.”
Arthur’s tone changed instantly.
“Plate?”
“I didn’t look.”
“Do not go back downstairs.”
“Arthur—”
“Stay inside.”
“Don’t send Nico.”
“Norah.”
“I mean it.”
A pause.
“I’ll handle it.”
I disconnected.
Ten minutes later, the sedan was gone.
What I didn’t know was that Arthur had not sent anyone to remove it.
He had arrived personally.
By then, whoever had been watching me was already moving north through traffic.
Arthur called Nico.
“I need you calm.”
“Those words usually mean the opposite.”
“Someone was outside Norah’s building.”
Silence.
“Yours?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“You told me to remove everyone. I removed everyone.”
“Plate?”
“Gone before I arrived.”
“Camera?”
“Building exterior camera points east. Vehicle was parked west.”
Nico stood behind the desk in the same study where he had destroyed us.
“Who knows where she is?”
“Your security team. Me. Two investigators.”
“Names.”
Arthur listed them.
Nico memorized each.
Then something occurred to him.
“Who knew she was gone before sunrise?”
“Same people.”
“No.”
Nico looked toward the study doors.
“You.”
“Yes.”
“The guards.”
“Yes.”
“And whoever heard us talking that night.”
Arthur frowned.
“We were alone.”
“Were we?”
They searched the study.
Not visibly.
Professionally.
At 11:38 p.m., one of Nico’s security men removed a tiny listening device from beneath the edge of the antique liquor cabinet.
Arthur stared at it.
“How long?”
Technician examined the battery.
“Could’ve been weeks.”
Nico said nothing.
His face became unreadable.
Arthur understood why.
If somebody had been listening that night, they had heard more than Nico’s cruelty toward me.
They had heard territory names.
Account discussions.
Routes.
Business disputes.
And they had heard that I had left.
To someone looking for leverage, I had just become extremely interesting.
Arthur spoke quietly.
“Tell her.”
Nico’s jaw tightened.
“She’ll think I’m trying to frighten her home.”
“Then let me tell her.”
“No.”
“Nico—”
“I created this.”
Arthur looked at him sharply.
“The bug?”
“No.”
Nico picked up the tiny device.
“The reason she won’t believe me when I say I’m trying to protect her.”
Meanwhile, I slept badly.
At 2:13 a.m., I woke to a sound in the hallway.
Footsteps.
They stopped outside my door.
I sat upright.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then something slid beneath the door.
A white envelope.
The footsteps moved away.
I waited until silence returned before approaching.
There was no name on the front.
Inside was a single photograph.
Me.
Leaving Hartwell Studio that afternoon.
On the back, someone had written:
Nico can’t protect what no longer belongs to him.
My blood went cold.
Then my phone rang.
Nico.
This time, I answered immediately.
And before he could speak, I said:
May you like
“Someone knows where I am.”
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