“Who gives a shit?” She knows but she’s not telling me. Why? “Above both our paygrades. Just get the job done and you’re home free. Remember, clock’s ticking on this one.”
The car comes to a halt, the door swinging open. “Where are we?” I ask.
“Her old place,” Imelda replies. “Don’t you recognize it? You better get started on tracking her down, hadn’t you? This assignment solves all your problems, Jack, and I set it up. Don’t you forget that when it comes to the crunch.”
She pulls the door shut. The car drives into the traffic. I turn and look at the entrance to the apartment block. It’s like I was here yesterday. Nothing’s changed.
I don’t hesitate. I walk straight up to the door and head inside.
7
“You can go in now.”
I get to my feet, comparing myself to the interviewee who just left. She had a leather portfolio crammed full of paper. What was that? Did I miss something on the application? Was I supposed to bring something with me?
The door on the other side of reception is open. I head through it and find myself in an office. On the other side of the desk is a woman in her fifties. She’s got a kindly smile, her eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses on a gold chain.
My phone beeps in my handbag. “I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling it out to silence it. My eyes catch the notification on my lock screen. Unknown number. Message.
He’s coming for you.
I assume it’s a wrong number, silencing my phone in case anything else comes through. It can’t mean my father. He’s dying. I got word last week. Got to be a wrong number.
Could it be Jack?
No, he walked out on me. Two years ago now. No chance it’s him.
I realize I’m lost in thought. “Sorry,” I say again, looking down at the desk.
In front of my eyes is a carved wooden plaque. Mrs. McCain. Principal. Next to it is a bobble head Dwight from The Office.
“Is that a crayon in your hair?” I ask as I look up. “Sorry, should I not have said anything? I’m a bit distracted. I mean nervous. Sorry.”
She plucks the crayon out. “Seven candidates so far today and you’re the first one to say anything. That’s a good start.”
“It is?”
She sets the crayon down on the desk before grabbing a pen and a clipboard, ticking a box at the top. “Oh, yes. Observation skills and the ability to comment on something out of place. Useful in a job like this.”
“I thought it was all coloring in and singing.”
“I like you,” she says, ticking another box, flicking over the sheet to look at the form underneath. “So, Jennifer Plunkett.”
“That’s me.” I don’t tell her I put a fake name on the application. The last thing I need is to be tracked down by my family, dragged back for an arranged marriage to some mafia asshole.
“Not a lot of experience of kindergartens,” she continues. “Says here you were working at Bud’s grocery store for the last year. What were you doing before that?”
“I have a little girl. I was out of work for a while, bringing her up.”
“Oh, I see. How old is she?”
“Fourteen months now.”
“She walking?”
“Just about. Still falls over a fair bit.”
“So do I. She’ll get there. Could bring her here when she turns two if you like?”