Chapter 8 - The Jeweler’s Scale and the Brass Key
At one-fifteen, Richard left the house to drop his conference documents off at his law partner’s downtown office.
Rachel watched through the lace curtains of the upstairs window as his silver sedan backed out of the driveway.
The moment the car turned the corner, Rachel moved with explosive speed.
She grabbed Sophie’s small yellow backpack from the closet.
She packed three changes of clothes for Sophie, her favorite coloring books, and the gray stuffed rabbit, Barnaby.
She packed two pairs of pants and a warm sweater for herself into a grocery tote bag.
She couldn't take luggage.
If Richard had installed security cameras—and she wouldn't put it past him—large suitcases would trigger suspicion.
She took the two envelopes of cash and her mother’s gold watch from beneath the mattress.
She carried Sophie down the stairs, walked out the front door, and locked the deadbolt behind her.
Across the street, Mrs. Gable was watering her potted geraniums.
Rachel walked straight across Elmwood Terrace, holding Sophie firmly by the hand.
“Martha,” Rachel said, her voice tight and low as she reached the neighbor’s driveway.
Mrs. Gable set down the plastic watering can, her eyes immediately scanning Rachel’s pale face and the small backpack on Sophie’s shoulders.
“You’re leaving,” Mrs. Gable said.
It wasn't a question.
“He filed for emergency custody, Martha,” Rachel whispered, her eyes burning with fierce intensity.
“He’s having a hearing Friday morning. He’s going to take Sophie from me.”
Mrs. Gable’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with genuine horror.
“The same way he did Eleanor,” the older woman gasped, looking back at Richard’s imposing brick house across the road.
“He used the county judge, Judge Miller. They were fraternity brothers at Northwestern.”
“I know,” Rachel said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. “I need you to do something for me, Martha.”
“Anything, sweetheart.”
“Take Sophie inside your house for one hour. Keep the blinds drawn. If Richard returns before I do, don't answer the door.”
“I have to go to the jewelry shop on Fourth Street to sell my mother’s watch, then sign the lease at the garden apartments.”
“I will be back by three-fifteen to pick her up, and then we are gone forever.”
Mrs. Gable didn't hesitate for a single second.
She reached down and lifted Sophie into her arms, pressing the little girl against her warm yellow cardigan.
“Go, Rachel,” Mrs. Gable said fiercely. “If Richard Hale pounds on my door, I will call the chief of police myself.”
“I’ve known the chief since he was in diapers. Richard doesn't own this entire town, no matter what he thinks.”
Rachel choked back a sob, kissed Sophie’s forehead, and turned on her heel.
“I love you, bug,” Rachel whispered to her daughter. “One hour.”
“Blue knob,” Sophie replied, her tiny voice clear and brave.
Rachel ran across the street, jumped into her Civic, and backed out into the road.
She drove three miles to Fourth Street, parking outside Kaufman’s Fine Jewelry and Antiques.
The bell above the shop door chimed softly as she pushed inside.
An elderly man with thick bifocals looked up from behind a glass counter filled with estate rings and pocket watches.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Rachel pulled her mother’s gold wristwatch from her pocket and set it down on the black velvet display pad.
“I need to sell this today, Mr. Kaufman,” Rachel said, her voice completely steady despite the trembling in her stomach.
The jeweler picked up a small brass loupe, pressing it against his right eye.
He examined the eighteen-karat hallmark on the clasp.
He checked the tiny diamonds surrounding the bezel with a diamond tester that emitted three rapid, high-pitched beeps.
He opened the back casing with a miniature blade, inspecting the Swiss movement inside.
“It’s an authentic 1968 Omega Ladymatic,” the man said, lowering the loupe.
“The gold alone is worth five hundred in scrap weight. The movement is pristine.”
“What can you give me in cash right now?” Rachel asked, leaning over the counter.
Mr. Kaufman looked at her face—the dark circles beneath her eyes, the chipped nail polish, the desperate posture.
“I usually pay forty percent of market value for walk-ins,” he said slowly.
“Please,” Rachel whispered, her knuckles whitening on the glass counter. “I am leaving an abusive situation with my daughter today.”
“I need nine hundred dollars to get the keys to our apartment.”
Mr. Kaufman stared at her for five long seconds.
He looked down at the gold watch, then reached beneath the counter.
He pulled out a heavy steel cash box, unlocked it with a brass key, and counted out nine crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
He slid the cash across the velvet pad toward Rachel.
“Nine hundred,” the jeweler said quietly. “Keep the receipt. If you want to buy it back within ninety days, it will be nine hundred flat.”
“No interest.”
Tears spilled over Rachel’s lashes, splashing against the black velvet pad.
“Thank you,” she choked out, grabbing the cash and shoving it into her purse. “Thank you so much.”
She ran out of the shop, the bell chiming frantically behind her.
She drove straight to the leasing office at the garden apartments, her Civic’s engine rattling like a tin can.
She burst through the office door at two-forty-five.
Mr. Henderson looked up from his desk, startled by her sudden entrance.
Rachel dumped her purse onto the desk.
She pulled out the two envelopes from Richard’s desk and the nine hundred dollars from the jeweler.
She counted out nineteen hundred dollars in crisp, crumpled, and mixed bills onto the blotter.
“Nineteen hundred,” Rachel breathed, pushing the money toward him. “First month and the full deposit.”
Henderson stared at the pile of cash, then up at Rachel’s determined, fierce face.
He nodded slowly, pulling a thick yellow lease packet and a set of two brass keys from his drawer.
“Sign on pages three, seven, and twelve,” Henderson said, sliding a pen toward her.
Rachel signed her name with frantic, jagged strokes.
Rachel Carter.
Rachel Carter.
Rachel Carter.
Henderson scooped the cash into his drawer, took the paperwork, and slid the two brass keys across the wood.
Rachel picked them up.
They were cold, heavy, and real.
“Unit 104 is yours, Ms. Carter,” Henderson said, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “Utilities are already transferred to the management account until Friday.”
Rachel clutched the keys in her fist, pressing the jagged teeth into her palm until they left red indentations.
She was a tenant.
She was an independent adult with a legal residence.
Richard’s emergency petition for custody was built entirely on the premise that she was homeless and destitute.
She looked at the clock on the leasing office wall.
Three-fifteen.
May you like
She had forty-five minutes before Richard was scheduled to return from his partner’s office.
She sprinted out to her car, threw the Civic into gear, and raced back toward Elmwood Terrace to reclaim her daughter.
