The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  “Can I help you?” he asked after hanging up.

  She put the magazine down on the cluttered table beside her and stepped forward. She examined the glass between them and lowered her face to speak through the hole in the partition. “I’m looking for Colleen,” she said.

  “Colleen who?”

  “Colleen Jones.”

  “I’m new. Hang on. Let me check the list.”

  It was deja vu. The same exchange as before. Except the last time, it was a woman’s voice, and his was soft and low. His eyes darted up and down a piece of paper. “There’s no Colleen Jones on here.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Hang on, let me check with the others.”

  She sat back down in the chair she’d first perched on when she’d arrived. At least he hadn’t called her honey. He picked up the phone. She straightened, straining to hear, but the glass between them garbled his voice. When he hung up, he leaned over the countertop and looked through the glass.

  “I spoke to our supervisor. There used to be a Colleen here, but she left six months ago.”

  A wave of fear washed over her. She hauled herself up from the chair. “That’s not possible,” she stammered. “I spoke to her.”

  “Really? When was that?”

  Her mind raced. It had been about a year ago. Or was it over a year? She thought back but she couldn’t remember. The room spun and she grabbed the counter. She was going to be ill.

  “You look like a ghost. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  The receptionist buzzed his way out of the office. She sat down, shaking, and pushed the glass of water he brought away.

  “I need to talk to her. It’s important.”

  The man raised his hands in the air. “I don’t know her. Never met her.”

  “Can you find someone who did?” she said. “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know. And if I did, I couldn’t tell you anyway. It’s against our privacy policy.”

  Her face turned red, and angry blotches rose up on her cheeks. Colleen was the only link she had to her mother. She did her best to smooth her voice. “Can I speak to anyone who worked with her? Or someone who worked with my mom?”

  The man looked puzzled. “Your mother worked here?”

  She nodded. “Yes. About fifteen years ago. With Colleen. That’s why I need to speak to her.”

  The receptionist smiled. “Let me call the supervisor back. She was here. Maybe she can sort this out.”

  He buzzed himself back into the front office area and picked up the phone. A tall woman with a bright teal crew cut and hoop earrings appeared from a back room, and peered out through the glass. Relieved she had a file in her hand, a laptop in the other, Greta gave her a little wave.

  The woman nodded and pointed to a door at her left. “Come on in. I’m sure I can help.”

  Greta stood, crossed the room and followed the woman down the dim-lit corridor into a small room that smelled like old cheese. As the outside door to the reception area slammed shut behind her, she jumped.

  “Sorry about that,” the woman said, after they sat down at the table. “I’ve worked here so long I forget they can be intimidating.”

  “Why’s it so locked up?”

  The woman jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Our clients live in the residence at the back of the building. They’ve had the courage to get themselves out of some pretty difficult situations.”

  “So you lock them in?” It sounded like an accusation.

  The lady shook her head. “No. We keep them safe from anything they might be fearful of. If their partners come looking for them, they can’t get in.”

  A lump formed in Greta’s throat. She tried hard to blur the memories that came rushing back. “I guess that’s good. Considering what they might’ve been through.”

  “So, I understand you’re looking for Colleen?”

  She nodded. As her story tumbled out, the woman sat and listened, tapping, taking notes on her laptop.

  “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Emily. Emily Giffen.”

  The woman scanned a database angled in a way Greta couldn’t see it. She stopped, peered into the screen, and then typed in another password. A two-finger hunter, Greta held her breath, waiting. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. The woman pushed her thick-framed glasses up onto the top of her head.

  “I’m not sure what to say. I don’t remember your mother, even though I was here, too. To complicate things, I can’t find her name in our system.”

  She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. How could that be? How could the computer not show any of her mother’s details? Details she knew were true and had to be there. It took every ounce of her energy not to jump over the table and check the laptop herself. Her lips trembled. “Please. I know she was here. Colleen confirmed it about a year ago.”

  The lady sighed and went back to the database. “There’s no record.”

  “There has to be. Colleen told me she worked with her.” She took out her phone and held it up in the air. The woman slipped her reading glasses back down her head and studied the screen. Her expression changed.

  “Do you remember her?”

  “I might.” She pulled the laptop closer, her fingers tapping the keys.

  “Is she in there?”

  “Hang on. I need to pick something up from the printer.”

  The woman stepped out of the room and, when she returned, she handed her a photo. Greta stared at the image—an image of her mother. A wide-open grin, she was a younger, her hair longer, her clothes artsy; she looked almost retro.

  Greta laughed. “I thought I was going crazy.”

  The woman sat down. “You’re sure this is her?”

  She snorted. “I know my own mother.”

  The woman’s face became brittle.

  “What?” she said.

  Knees nearly touching in the space between them, the woman pulled hers back. As she did, Greta could tell she was arranging words in her head. Her heart sank. If her mother had been there but hadn’t worked there, there was only one other possible answer. She narrowed her eyes. It couldn’t be.

  “Your mother was here with Colleen and I,” the woman said.

  “I know. I told you,” she said pointedly.

  “Her name was Emily Strachan.”

  Her mom’s maiden name: Emily Strachan. She filed away the new information. “What’s the but I can hear there?”

  “She didn’t work with us.” The woman paused. “Your mother was a client.”

  Greta shook her head. She didn’t believe it. She scrambled to recall her phone call with Colleen, replaying each word of the conversation in her head. It’d been a year, but she was certain she never mentioned a thing. Had Colleen lied? Underestimated her? Had she misunderstood? She thought back to the day she stood alone in the kitchen the afternoon her mother died and mentally reconstructed the murder. At that point, she’d had no sense of the extent of her mom’s full story. No idea how far back the violence went. All she knew was that her mother was dead.

  She sat across from the woman and started counting. One, two, three. But she could feel her anxiety creeping, and counting wasn’t working. Four, five, six. She could not and did not want to lose control. Seven, eight, nine.

  “Where’s Colleen now?” she asked.

  “Gone,” the woman said. “She got another job. Somewhere down in Toronto.”

  Greta exploded. She screamed, reached across the table, ripped the laptop from the woman’s hand, and threw it against the wall. It shattered; black pieces flew across the floor. Then she stood, picked up the chair over her head, and slammed in down hard on the carpet. “I’ll never find her now.”

  The woman sat, visibly upset. “I’m so sorry about all this, Greta. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Your mother was a strong and brave woman. She got away from her abuser. As for Colleen, she left the shelter about six months ago.”

  Greta punched the wall wi
th her fist. “Emily Strachan didn’t get away from her abuser. She married him.”

  “I’d like to hear more about this,” Detective Perez said. “I find it odd it hadn’t dawned on you your mother was a client.”

  “From the woman’s tone, I knew something was up. But I—”

  “Frankly, it was obvious.”

  “To you. You’re old. I was fifteen. Up until then, how would I know? I hadn’t put it together. My mom only dropped hints about her life. Bits and pieces.”

  “But, Greta, you said yourself your father beat your mother and terrorized you. You said your father killed your mother one morning when you were at school. How could you not think your mother went to a women’s shelter to get help?”

  “You trying to pin this on me, too? I could ask the same thing. How could the woman who worked with her not know she was murdered?”

  “What did she say when you told her?”

  “Nothing. She stood there.”

  “Shocked?”

  “Who knows. I left.”

  “And then what?”

  “I went home. Numb. Pissed off. I’d had it.”

  “Because of Colleen?”

  She looked at Detective Perez. “No. Because of my mother. My whole life was built on secrets. Lies. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know if anything my mom had ever told me was true. What kind of woman seeks shelter from her abuser and then marries him and adopts a kid to raise?”

  Detective Perez raised her hands in the air. “More to the point, what kind of adoption agency places in a kid in a violent home?”

  Greta looked at her strangely. “Ian was a deacon and a very good liar. Apparently, my mom was, too. The initials carved into the bottom said DS. She’d even lied about that.”

  “She hadn’t bought it”—she flipped back through her notebook—“in Bracebridge?”

  “At a stupid antique fair? No. It was hers. The S stood for Strachan. Her maiden name. I didn’t know what the D stood for. Maybe Emily wasn’t even her real name. All I knew was that she’d lied to me and left me alone with Ian.”

  She’d curled up on her bed that afternoon and sobbed. In less than a heartbeat, the woman who’d made up half of her whole had not been who she’d thought she was. Crumpled in the sheets, she hadn’t noticed the shadow that swept cross the doorway. When she finally did, she’d jumped, scattering the contents of the dime box across the bedroom floor.

  Mrs. Xiangzi stared down at her. “Don’t remember giving you Saturday night off, G.”

  She shook her head, the lump in her throat as hard as a pebble.

  “Do you need an invitation? We’re packed downstairs.”

  “Sorry. I lost track of the time. Give me five.”

  When she didn’t move, Mrs. X frowned. “Five seconds or fired.”

  Greta pushed herself up and waited for the head rush to pass. She couldn’t wake up; her mind was in the throes of a nightmare.

  For the next week, Greta worked and slept with a churning stomach. She was rudderless. Though she missed her mother every day, she no longer felt sure who the woman she so desperately missed actually was. She gave up. No icy chill of panic overcame her. She shut her eyes and traced the knotty scars on her wrists. It was a simple and sweet surrender.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  D etective Perez’s eyes darted in the direction of the door as the same narrow faced woman who turned up earlier that morning peered around the corner. As the woman stepped forward, a file in her hand, she glanced at Greta quickly before passing it over.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Detective, but we have a problem.”

  All Greta could hear of their scattered conversation was urgent and hushed, clipped tones.

  Her mouth a hard line, the detective leafed through the pages and then stopped, running her finger down one of the notes crammed inside. For a full five seconds, the room fell silent. “That’s quite the story, Greta,” she said.

  Eyes straightforward, Greta wiped her palms on her sweatshirt. “It was a long couple of years.”

  Detective Perez made her way back across the room and smacked a hand down on the desk. From the other, she dangled a yellow note from the file, finger and thumb pinching the corner. “You lied to me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You said when saw your father Saturday night, you didn’t touch anything.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re lying now.” She waved the yellow note in the air. “I’ve got your fingerprints.”

  Heat prickled along her hairline as she stared at the inky smudges at the bottom of the page. “I said I was in the room. I told you I might have held the bedrail.”

  “Or touching your father’s respirator?”

  Her head spun. She couldn’t breathe. She knew exactly what she was talking about. Shit. The bloody green button.

  Detective Perez leaned forward. “This doesn’t look good. Anything else you’ve lied about?”

  Greta swallowed. She had no idea what had possessed her to touch it. But how had they found out? She searched around the room. Her eyes fell on the blue box beside the door. It was empty. They’d lifted her prints from the bottle.

  “Okay, okay. I did.”

  “Would you like to explain it?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  From the corner of her eye, there was a rustle of movement. Officer Sanchez and Officer Hatten stepped into the office, blocking the doorway. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she braced her feet against the chair.

  “You’re lucky I’m not arresting you right now,” Detective Perez said. A muscle jumped in her jaw as she tacked the note to the bottom of her screen. She turned her attention to the officers. “In fact, I will.” She looked back at her. “Maybe it’ll help you remember.”

  She leapt from the chair. “Are you fucking serious?”

  Officer Hatten’s mouth tightened. He took a step toward her. “Nice language.”

  She spun around and, when she did, her arms flew in the air. Then a thud and someone grunted. Officer Hatten pulled his hands from his face. Red trickled down from his nose. His partner lunged forward and clapped a hand to her shoulder, slamming her down in the chair.

  “I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer, too,” Detective Perez said.

  “It was an accident.”

  “It’s my duty to inform you—”

  She screamed. “No one’s listening.”

  “You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. You have the right to telephone any lawyer you wish.”

  “Like I can pay for that.”

  “You also have the right to free advice from a legal aid lawyer.” Detective Perez rattled off a phone number. “Do you understand? Do you wish to call a lawyer now?”

  Officer Sanchez bent down and spoke slowly, her breath warm on her neck. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand? Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge?”

  Jerked off the chair, arms wrenched behind her, a loud snapping sound rang out, and she felt the bite of cool metal against her wrists. She turned to Detective Perez. “This is total bullshit,” she yelled.

  Her face red and tight with anger, Detective Perez’s voice rose in disbelief. “Assaulting an officer should be the least of your worries right now.”

  Officer Sanchez patted her down, pushed her toward the door, fingers digging deep into the flesh of her forearm with every step. As she staggered from the room, Detective Perez’s voice faded behind her.

  Greta was directed out the front doors three floors below, and a hand pushed down the top of her head as she stumbled into the back seat of the cruiser. Cheek on the ripped seat, she gagged from the smell. Sweat? Old coffee and cigarettes? Plexiglas spread in front of her, and a sign below read NOTICE. This vehicle is fitted with recording equipment.
Your words and actions are being recorded. Beside it, someone had scratched the word smile. Before she could sit up, the door banged closed and the car sped through the downtown core.

  Early spring, still light out, she watched the bustle on the streets from the window. Shoppers, bags overflowing. Men and women, stern-faced in suits, scurrying their way home. A drunken couple bickered beside a stop sign, dead leaves and empty liquor bottles scattered around them. Behind, a group of teens, fingers pressed hard to the glass outside the front of a restaurant, examined a greasy menu. She felt ill. A sharp pain vibrated through the side of her head as the cruiser jerked around the corner. She couldn’t make heads or tails of the squawking and static coming from the police scanner. With her body hugged to the door, she closed her eyes and wished she were home.

  Five minutes later, they were in a parking lot outside a two-storey station; red brick with glass front doors. Were they all built the same way? Save for the sign outside that read ‘52 Division’, it reminded her of the day she and Mr. K. had visited Officer Pappas up in Ravensworth.

  They veered to the left, and she followed the edge of building as the car bumped through the lane, wretched with potholes and rusty pop cans, and stopped at a small entrance located near the back. When the door of the car swung open, cold air slapped her in the face.

  “Let’s go,” Officer Sanchez said.

  Greta hopped out. Escorted through the opening, along a corridor and past a garbage can overflowing with empty coffee cups, Officer Sanchez held a hand at her back, her fingers tight to her spine. Doorways on either side led to offices, with a small sign duct-taped to one reading Out of order. She hoped there was another washroom somewhere in the building. At the end of the hall, they turned right, and she was steered toward a dark room. The door, swollen with age, its glass riddled with cracks, groaned as it opened.