Chapter 13

As the end of the month approached, Dusty's days at the office grew longer. She found herself working twelve-hour days, entering and leaving the office under the cover of darkness. She wanted to complain, to protest the sudden increase in workload, but no one else seemed to mind.

And since everyone else was managing to work more, Dusty didn't want to be singled out as the one who couldn't hack it. She put her head down, put her headphones in, and tried to get through the stack of work she had.

"It gets intense at the end of each month," Jeff told her apologetically one evening. It was already quarter past seven, and Dusty still had three more assignments to complete before she could leave. She was sadly aware that she'd missed her scheduled call with Ashley for the fifth night in a row.

"It's certainly busier," Dusty agreed, trying not to sound resentful.

"There's just more deadlines to meet, that's all," Jeff said, leaning against her cubicle, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. "I'm impressed with how you've managed," he complimented her.

"That makes two of us," Dusty replied. "I'm beginning to forget what sleep feels like."

"It'll be better next week, I promise." Jeff laughed. "You should be proud of yourself; most new recruits flake out after their first end of the month." "

Well, I like it here," Dusty admitted, which she did. She enjoyed the tasks of the job, dealing with numbers and being left to work under her own initiative. It suited her.

"Good, 'cause you're doing great. Keep this up until your three-month probation ends, and there could be a raise in it for you."

"That'd be nice."

"Let you get a decent apartment and get out of that crap hole you're staying in."

"Who says I live in a crap hole?" Dusty asked, indignant.

"Your zip code," Jeff explained matter-of-factly. "That's not a nice neighborhood for a girl on her own to be in."

"I manage." "

Still, I'd feel better sleeping at night if you could afford to live somewhere nicer. Sure your dad would too." With those parting paternal words, Jeff sauntered off back into his own office.

Normally, a comment about her father would push through Dusty's chest like a bullet, ripping out the other side and leaving her inconsolable with pain. But today, it merely pinched, like a bee sting. She shook it off and reminded herself that Jeff didn't know about her situation or personal history, and why should he? To him, she was just another employee, and it felt good to be judged by the same standard as everyone else, not to be given allowances because of what she'd lost.

But thoughts of her father had now surfaced, and as Dusty finally left the office and entered the subway station at eight, she was distracted. With her headphones in, she let her mind drift back to memories of her late father, wondering what he'd make of her now, a Princeton graduate working in New York City.

She imagined that he'd be proud of her. She could picture him telling strangers about his daughter, unable to conceal his pride. He'd have a bumper sticker declaring that his daughter was a Princeton graduate.

He would keep tabs on all the college games, updating Dusty on them even long after she left the college. She sighed sadly at the potential of what could have been and, stepping off the subway at her stop, did not notice the hooded figure that followed just a few steps behind. It was about a ten-minute walk to her apartment building, and Dusty usually hurried when it was dark, but today she wasn't as mindful, walking at a steady yet slow pace, still mulling over how different her life may, or may not, have been had her father survived that fateful day.

The cold metal barrel pressing against the back of her head made her stop dead in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat. Discreetly she reached into her pocket and silenced her music. "Give me the bag," a hostile voice demanded, thick with the guttural Brooklyn accent. Dusty's Chanel bag rested on her shoulder. She was clutching it tightly with one hand, a part of her desperately not wanting to relinquish it. She moved to turn around, but the gun pressed harder to her head, leaving a mark upon her scalp.

"I don't want no trouble, just give me the bag," the assailant explained in his angry, harassed tone. Dusty thought of the moment when Ashley had presented her with the bag. How delighted she'd been by such a generous gift. And now it was being taken away from her by some coward with a gun. But Dusty knew what would happen if he pulled the trigger. She'd seen her father's life get blasted out of him, his blood pouring out until there was nothing left.

She didn't want to die there on a sidewalk in a bad area of the city. She didn't want her mother to be awoken late in the night by the devastating news that her daughter had been shot and killed. All these thoughts played out in Dusty's mind over the course of less than a second.

"Come on, princess, the bag," the voice demanded once more, and Dusty released her grip, letting her beloved Chanel bag fall into his waiting, thieving hands. "Good girl," he said so close to her ear that it made her feel sick with repulsion. "Now stand there and count to ten." Dusty obeyed, and with each increasing number, she heard his footsteps eagerly running further and further away.

When she at last reached ten, she turned around and saw that the street behind her was now empty, the thief and her handbag were gone. The realization of what had happened began to settle in, and Dusty felt her hands start to shake. She knew she was going into shock, and she was alone, in the dark. Terrified, she ran as fast as she could to her apartment building, not knowing where else to go.

****

"Poor girl. You must have been terrified," Mrs. Williams, the wife of the maintenance man of the building, said sympathetically as she made Dusty a cup of hot chocolate. Dusty was sitting in his apartment, which was conveniently located on the ground floor of the building, meaning that Joseph Williams was available as and when issues cropped up around the place.

He'd opened his door to find her shaking like a leaf, her skin deathly pale. As she relayed what had happened, he'd looked saddened and mumbled about how it wasn't the first time he'd heard such a tale. Mrs. Williams had gone into mothering overload, insisting Dusty come inside and wait there until the cops arrived.

She handed Dusty a mug of hot chocolate, stating it would make her feel better. "He just came out of nowhere," Dusty explained, remembering the sickening moment when she'd felt the gun upon the back of her head.

"Probably followed you off the subway," Mr. Williams said. "Thieving scum. What sort of man preys on a young woman alone?"

"The worst kind," Mrs. Williams said, equally as angry as her husband at the injustice which had occurred just outside their apartment.

"Have you got family close?" she asked Dusty, looking at her with old, concerned eyes.

Dusty shook her head and blew into the mug.

"Anyone you want to call?" Mrs. Williams suggested. Dusty thought about calling her mother but decided against it. She'd only be scared by what had happened, and Dusty didn't want to stress her out unnecessarily. She wanted to call Ashley but would feel bad about making a long-distance call from their apartment.

She'd wait to phone her until she was at the police station. She'd lost all methods of communication: her iPad, cell phone, even her apartment keys. "We'll change the locks, don't you worry," Mrs. Williams had said.

"Have to bill you for it, though," Mr. Williams added. Dusty understood, already feeling foolish not to have been more self-aware when walking around the city at night. Her valuables should have been on her person, not in a designer handbag that could easily be snatched away. She thought of her rape alarm attached to her keys in her bag, which was now being emptied out in some dingy apartment by her thief.

Some use that had been. It pained Dusty to admit that Dust had been right to warn her against wearing her Chanel handbag, and she had no doubt that he'd be quick to point that out to her. "It could have been much worse," Mrs. Williams stated.

"Yeah," Dusty agreed, also knowing only too well the pain of losing someone in a gun crime.

"You're lucky he didn't hurt you," Mrs. Williams continued. "You can buy things back, but you can't return a life."

****

When Dusty explained to Jeff the following morning what had happened, he was outraged. After his initial tirade about the state of mankind, he then insisted on taking Dusty to the nearest Apple store and buying and insuring for her a brand new iPad and iPhone on the company credit card.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Dusty had asked as he handed them to her.

"It's fine. Most members of the staff get theirs after their probation, but I'm happy for you to get them early. You've already more than earned your stripes."

"Thank you so much."

"Of course, it does mean that now you'll be expected to work from home from time to time."

"That's not a problem."

"Because from now on, no more late nights for you. I want you going home in daylight," Jeff said protectively.

"Thanks, Jeff, I appreciate you looking out for me." Dusty nodded in gratitude.

"No problem. You're a hard worker, and I take care of those who put the work in, remember that."