Story code: ST-000320
Part 1: Twenty Questions
Rosa sprinted down the narrow corridor toward the glowing red exit sign, desperate to catch the eleven-ten bus to her sick son, only to slam to a halt as a heavy wooden chair slid directly into her path. Mr. Vance, the restaurant owner’s new boyfriend, smiled warmly from the shadows of the VIP booth, gesturing to the velvet-cushioned seat as if offering a weary worker a polite place to rest. The heavy oak chair completely wedged against the opposite wall, forming an absolute physical barricade in the tight space between the dining room and the coat check.
Rosa gripped the straps of her grease-stained backpack, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had exactly eight minutes to make it to the downtown transit center. Her neighbor Maria had texted three times about little Leo’s spiking fever, and Rosa needed her tip money to buy infant Tylenol on the way home.
She offered a strained, respectful nod, expecting the man to pull the chair back and let her pass.
Vance did not move it an inch. He rested his polished leather loafers on the bottom rung of the barricade, swirling a glass of amber liquid in his right hand. He looked her up and down with an intense, clinical focus that completely contradicted his wide, toothpaste-commercial smile.
“Rosa, the hardest worker in the kitchen,” Vance said, his smooth baritone echoing in the deserted dining room. “Take a seat. Stay a while. There is no need to rush off into the dangerous night.”
Rosa swallowed hard, her eyes flicking toward the exit door just ten feet away. “I need to catch my bus, sir. My son is very sick.”
Vance left his foot firmly planted on the chair. “A sick child is a terrible burden. Tell me about his father. I am sure a strong man is at home managing the situation.”
Rosa pressed her back against the velvet rope, trying to maximize the space between them. She desperately needed her paycheck to afford Leo’s medication, and Eleanor, the owner, was completely infatuated with this man. Offending Vance meant losing her job immediately.
“It is just me and my son, sir,” Rosa said, keeping her voice flat and respectful. “I really must go.”
Vance took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. “A single mother. That is quite a struggle for someone so far from home. I am continually fascinated by the journeys of Eleanor’s kitchen staff. You must have traveled a great distance to find this particular job.”
Rosa felt a cold drop of sweat slide down her spine. The air in the corridor suddenly felt thick and unbreathable. “I was born in Texas, sir. Excuse me.”
She took a half-step forward, testing the barrier. Vance did not budge. His smile widened, stretching the skin tight across his cheekbones, while his pale blue eyes remained dead and observant.
“I appreciate a little pride, Rosa, but I am an excellent judge of accents,” Vance murmured. He set his glass down on the polished wood table. “Let us play a friendly game of twenty questions. We are practically family now that I am with Eleanor. You tell me your real country of origin, and I will pull the chair back.”
The fluorescent light from the kitchen buzzed faintly behind her. Rosa stared at the heavy oak legs blocking her freedom. Her hands trembled. If she lied, he would press harder. If she told the truth, he would use it to destroy her livelihood. Her mind raced with thoughts of Leo crying in Maria’s apartment, his little forehead burning up.
“I am telling you the truth,” Rosa said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to control it. “Please let me pass.”
“You people are always in such a hurry,” Vance said, lacing his fingers together over his chest. “Running across borders, running to cash checks under the table, taking resources meant for others. I imagine you have a whole network of relatives packed into a single apartment somewhere in the slums.”
Rosa’s fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. The claustrophobia was suffocating. She looked over her shoulder, but the back delivery door automatically locked from the outside after ten o’clock. This front corridor was her only avenue of escape.
“I would hate to mention to Eleanor that her kitchen is harboring undocumented workers,” Vance continued, his tone remaining incredibly pleasant. “She has so much stress already with the quarterly taxes. I prefer to handle these little personnel audits myself. Hand over your identification.”
Rosa froze, the blood draining from her face. Her state ID had expired six months ago, and her work permit was a fragile piece of paper she kept hidden in a false bottom of her bag. Showing him either would give him all the ammunition he needed. Refusing him would lead to an immediate firing.
“My wallet is at the bottom of my bag,” Rosa said, stalling for time. “I cannot get it out right now.”
“Nothing is private when you work in my girlfriend’s establishment,” Vance countered. He extended his hand over the back of the chair, palm up, demanding the backpack. “Give me the bag, Rosa.”
Rosa took a step backward, bumping into the brass pole of the velvet rope. She shook her head, unable to form words.
Vance let out a soft sigh, dropping the friendly smile entirely. His face went completely slack, revealing something cold and terrifying underneath. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket and slowly withdrew a thick, sealed manila envelope. He dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud.
Written across the front of the envelope in thick black marker was her full legal name, a name she had never given to Eleanor or anyone else at the restaurant.
Rosa sprinted down the narrow corridor toward the glowing red exit sign, desperate to catch the eleven-ten bus to her sick son, only to slam to a halt as a heavy wooden chair slid directly into her path. Mr. Vance, the restaurant owner’s new boyfriend, smiled warmly from the shadows of the VIP booth, gesturing to the velvet-cushioned seat as if offering a weary worker a polite place to rest. The heavy oak chair completely wedged against the opposite wall, forming an absolute physical barricade in the tight space between the dining room and the coat check.
Rosa gripped the straps of her grease-stained backpack, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had exactly eight minutes to make it to the downtown transit center. Her neighbor Maria had texted three times about little Leo’s spiking fever, and Rosa needed her tip money to buy infant Tylenol on the way home.
She offered a strained, respectful nod, expecting the man to pull the chair back and let her pass.
Vance did not move it an inch. He rested his polished leather loafers on the bottom rung of the barricade, swirling a glass of amber liquid in his right hand. He looked her up and down with an intense, clinical focus that completely contradicted his wide, toothpaste-commercial smile.
“Rosa, the hardest worker in the kitchen,” Vance said, his smooth baritone echoing in the deserted dining room. “Take a seat. Stay a while. There is no need to rush off into the dangerous night.”
Rosa swallowed hard, her eyes flicking toward the exit door just ten feet away. “I need to catch my bus, sir. My son is very sick.”
Vance left his foot firmly planted on the chair. “A sick child is a terrible burden. Tell me about his father. I am sure a strong man is at home managing the situation.”
Rosa pressed her back against the velvet rope, trying to maximize the space between them. She desperately needed her paycheck to afford Leo’s medication, and Eleanor, the owner, was completely infatuated with this man. Offending Vance meant losing her job immediately.
“It is just me and my son, sir,” Rosa said, keeping her voice flat and respectful. “I really must go.”
Vance took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. “A single mother. That is quite a struggle for someone so far from home. I am continually fascinated by the journeys of Eleanor’s kitchen staff. You must have traveled a great distance to find this particular job.”
Rosa felt a cold drop of sweat slide down her spine. The air in the corridor suddenly felt thick and unbreathable. “I was born in Texas, sir. Excuse me.”
She took a half-step forward, testing the barrier. Vance did not budge. His smile widened, stretching the skin tight across his cheekbones, while his pale blue eyes remained dead and observant.
“I appreciate a little pride, Rosa, but I am an excellent judge of accents,” Vance murmured. He set his glass down on the polished wood table. “Let us play a friendly game of twenty questions. We are practically family now that I am with Eleanor. You tell me your real country of origin, and I will pull the chair back.”
The fluorescent light from the kitchen buzzed faintly behind her. Rosa stared at the heavy oak legs blocking her freedom. Her hands trembled. If she lied, he would press harder. If she told the truth, he would use it to destroy her livelihood. Her mind raced with thoughts of Leo crying in Maria’s apartment, his little forehead burning up.
“I am telling you the truth,” Rosa said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to control it. “Please let me pass.”
“You people are always in such a hurry,” Vance said, lacing his fingers together over his chest. “Running across borders, running to cash checks under the table, taking resources meant for others. I imagine you have a whole network of relatives packed into a single apartment somewhere in the slums.”
Rosa’s fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. The claustrophobia was suffocating. She looked over her shoulder, but the back delivery door automatically locked from the outside after ten o’clock. This front corridor was her only avenue of escape.
“I would hate to mention to Eleanor that her kitchen is harboring undocumented workers,” Vance continued, his tone remaining incredibly pleasant. “She has so much stress already with the quarterly taxes. I prefer to handle these little personnel audits myself. Hand over your identification.”
Rosa froze, the blood draining from her face. Her state ID had expired six months ago, and her work permit was a fragile piece of paper she kept hidden in a false bottom of her bag. Showing him either would give him all the ammunition he needed. Refusing him would lead to an immediate firing.
“My wallet is at the bottom of my bag,” Rosa said, stalling for time. “I cannot get it out right now.”
“Nothing is private when you work in my girlfriend’s establishment,” Vance countered. He extended his hand over the back of the chair, palm up, demanding the backpack. “Give me the bag, Rosa.”
Rosa took a step backward, bumping into the brass pole of the velvet rope. She shook her head, unable to form words.
Vance let out a soft sigh, dropping the friendly smile entirely. His face went completely slack, revealing something cold and terrifying underneath. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket and slowly withdrew a thick, sealed manila envelope. He dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud.
Written across the front of the envelope in thick black marker was her full legal name, a name she had never given to Eleanor or anyone else at the restaurant.