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Dumpster diving. Another layer of gross to add to her night. “I would have brought you something.”
“Breakfast tomorrow.”
“You’re on.”
Flipping the box top open, he slid down the brick wall and took a seat under the eave next to the front stoop. “Best get inside before Montrose loses his mind.”
“He been yelling?”
“Oh yeah,” he muttered, around a mouthful of cold pizza. “Guy wouldn’t budge though. Said he needs to speak with you. Sounded urgent.”
“How urgent?” A detail she needed to know. Montrose was prone to overreaction. The guy labeled everything urgent.
“Urgent,urgent.”
Dread slithered through her. “Bad omen.”
“Could be,” Earl said, eyeing her from beneath his bushy brows. “Won’t know ’til you talk to ’im. Get moving, girl.”
Adjusting the camera bag strap across her body, she squared her shoulders, preparing to meet the situation head-on. “Apple Strudel or bagel with cream cheese tomorrow?”
“Both, girl. Both. And don’t forget the coffee.”
“Do I ever?”
Earl grinned his gap-toothed grin and, with the flick of his fingers, motioned her toward the front door. A master at giving orders, the homeless man never hesitated to boss her around. For some reason, she didn’t mind. Might have started out strange — with him asking her to buy cheese for Quint, the field mouse who lived in his pocket — but over the last few months, he’d become a friend.
He’d been hanging around since she started working for Montrose. At first, she’d thought him a permanent fixture on the block, someone who’d been around for years. Montrose disabused her of the notion. He didn’t like Earl or the fact his arrival in the neighborhood coincided with her employment with M&B. Not a surprise, considering her boss hated everybody, homeless people topping the endless list of things he didn’t like.
Not that she cared what Montrose thought.
Pissing him off was one of the only things she enjoyed most days.
At the front door, she reached for the bent handle. A clean grab and jerk opened grimy glass framed by steel. A fast pace walked her across faded linoleum, past the open interior door, into the office proper.
The visitor looked her way.
Her gaze tracked to Montrose.
Dark hair slicked back, phone pressed to his ear, long ash trail hanging off the cigarette perched between his fingertips, he glared at her through the window that provided a view of the main office from behind his desk.
She flipped him the bird in greeting.
He pointed to their unwelcome guest with stained fingertips.
With a nod, she skirted the counter separating the waiting area with three chairs (one of them broken) from four desks set nose-to-nose. The man hopped from his chair. Truly moved down the aisle between the desks, gaze leveled on him.
He shuffled from foot to foot, color rising in his cheeks as he bowed his head. Her focus sharpened. His reaction to her was weird. Was he shy, striving to be polite, or trying to be respectful? Good question. One Truly didn’t know how to answer given what she saw in his expression. The look on his face read more like awe, the kind of reverence reserved for star athletes and A-list celebrities.
“Truly Isabeth Turnbolt?”
“Not my name,” she said, stopping at her desk.
His brow furrowed. A moment later, his expression cleared. “Ah, yes. That’s right. You were given a new one.”
Swinging her camera bag off her shoulder, she dropped it onto her beat-up chair. “A new one?”
“When your mother left you at St. Redeemer’s, she gave you a new name.”
