The Night Shift(26)

Before Ella has time to protest, she’s chasing after Jesse, who’s running through the weeds, down an embankment, and onto the tracks. Soon, they’re both sprinting—breathing heavily, their pace panicked—into the gloom.

This is crazy. She should stop; she’s the adult. She can’t run from law enforcement. But her legs keep pumping, trailing after Jesse, who jackrabbits ahead, the only sound their shoes pounding gravel between the long beams of iron.

They’re trespassing. Ella has placed herself in a difficult position. So she runs.

It goes on like this, making their way along the grim trail—past graffitied walls, piles of garbage, overgrown shrubs—until the police lights disappear behind them.

Jesse takes a sharp left off the tracks through a path stomped into the weeds. A chain-link fence stops them, but this one’s low, and Jesse vaults over it. Ella isn’t so graceful.

They’re in an industrial area now. In the distance, a dilapidated warehouse and figures huddle in front of a fire dancing from a metal drum. This isn’t right. It isn’t safe.

“They’re harmless,” Jesse says, as if reading Ella’s thoughts, or more likely, her stiff body language.

“We need to get out of here, Jesse. I’m not comfortable with—”

“Suit yourself.”

“Wait,” Ella calls after Jesse, who’s marching toward the fire.

Ella checks her phone. It’s already on low-battery mode and will shut down at any moment. She taps on the Uber app. The nearest car is thirty minutes away. She wonders if an Uber driver would be foolhardy enough to venture here at this hour. She orders the car, then follows after Jesse, who’s approaching the group, masked by smoke wafting from the barrel.

When Ella catches up, she realizes they’re kids. A boy and a girl. They can’t be more than fifteen years old.

It’s unclear if they know Jesse. But she’s surely been here before.

The boy, looking worn for his age, speaks first. “We told you not to come back.” It’s said with exasperation rather than menace.

“You’re not still mad?” Jesse says. “He had it coming.”

“You broke his nose.”

Jesse shakes her head. “Then he shouldn’t have been acting like that. You have a sister, Kevin.” Jesse looks at the girl. “You should be thanking me.”

The girl next to Kevin studies the ground, not wanting to get involved.

Ella says, “We should go. I have a ride coming.”

Jesse doesn’t budge. In the firelight, she looks older. Harder.

“I’m not gonna say it again,” Kevin says. “Listen to your friend.” A shadow crosses his face.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Ella tells him. “We’ll stay over there…” She looks over to the old warehouse. It has a single bulb illuminating its front. The boxy structure has shattered windows and peeling paint.

The boy sniffs. “Just keep her away from us.”

“Fuck you, Kevin.” Jesse makes a threatening gesture, like she’s going to lunge at him, and the boy flinches. She wears a wicked smile now but lets Ella drag her away.

Ella catches her breath in front of the warehouse. They wait in leaden silence until the headlamps of the Uber miraculously appear on the desolate road ahead.

Ella is learning a lot about this girl. That she’s tough. Brave.

And has a violent side.



* * *



The Uber driver eyes them skeptically in the rearview. Ella wants to ask Jesse what she meant about lying to the police. Wants to probe. But Jesse closes her eyes and falls asleep—or pretends to sleep—the entire ride. Eventually, the car pulls to a stop at the wrought-iron fence of a grand estate on Beekman Terrace in Summit, New Jersey.

Jesse’s eyes pop open. “Where the hell are we?”

“My mom’s house.”

“You didn’t say you were, like, rich.” Jesse stares at the mansion in the distance.

“I’m not. I said it’s my mom’s house.”

Ella instructs the driver to push the call button on the security system outside the gate. She asks him to pull the car up so the camera can focus on the rear window, which Ella has lowered. She sticks her head slightly out the window so that her face is visible in the yellow glow.

A man’s face appears on the video monitor.

In a pronounced English accent, he says, “This is private property. What do you—” He stops. “Eloise?”

Ella smiles. The family’s longtime butler—or “estate manager,” as Charles prefers—has aged. More lines on his face, more gray hair. But still distinguished and decidedly British.

“Hi, Charles.”

The gate creaks open, and the Uber pulls down the long lane lined with old-growth trees. The tennis courts on the left are lit up. So are the stables on the right. The car maneuvers along the cobblestone circular driveway and comes to a stop in front of the porticoed entrance of the colonial revival that’s been in their family since the late 1800s.

Ella and Jesse are met at the front door by Charles. Even at this late hour, he’s buttoned up and looking 8 a.m. sharp.

“It’s been too long,” he greets Ella. “Shall I wake your mother?”

Ella cocks a brow like it’s an insane question.