Chapter 2 - The Crest on the Paper
The paper sticking out of the worn canvas pocket was creased along the edges, but the gold foil emblem of St. Jude Academy was unmistakable. Beneath it, written in bold, clean typography, was a full legal name: Maya Vance.
My mind raced back through years of corporate press releases and high-society board meetings.
Vance.
Ten years ago, Arthur Vance had been my primary competitor in Chicago’s real estate venture market. Vance Enterprises had been a titan—until Arthur’s sudden, mysterious death eight years ago, followed by the aggressive, hostile takeover that liquidated his company and left his estate in complete bankruptcy.
I looked down at the teenage girl standing before me, shivering softly in the biting Lake Michigan wind. Her cheekbones were sharp, her eyes a vivid, piercing hazel—the exact eyes of Arthur Vance.
"You're Arthur Vance's daughter," I said softly.
Maya pulled the bag back, her jaw tightening defensively. "I'm not asking for money. I was just helping her."
"Maya, wait," I said, stepping forward, keeping my voice gentle so as not to scare her. "I knew your father. We worked on the Riverfront Development project together back in 2016."
"My father died eight years ago, Mr. Harrison," Maya said coldly, her voice far too mature for a girl who looked no older than sixteen. "And the men who called themselves his friends bought his company for pennies on the dollar before the bank even cleared his funeral expenses."
The truth of her words hit me like a physical blow. When Arthur died, the rumor in boardrooms was that his wife had taken their infant daughter and relocated to the West Coast. Nobody looked deeper. Nobody asked questions.
"Where are you staying, Maya?" I asked quietly.
"I manage," she replied, slinging her heavy, duct-taped backpack over her thin shoulder.
"Dad," Sophie tugged hard at my sleeve, her brown eyes pleading with an intensity I hadn't seen since before my wife passed. "Maya doesn't have a coat. She told me she sleeps at the shelter near the library, but they close the doors at six."
I looked at my watch. It was 5:15 PM. The temperature in Chicago was already dropping below freezing.
"Get in the car," I said to Maya.
Maya backed away, shaking her head violently. "No. I don't take charity from men in suits. That's how my mother lost everything."
"It's not charity," I said firmly, opening the door to the heated rear cabin of the sedan. "It's an interview."
Maya stopped. "An interview for what?"
"My daughter needs an academic tutor," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "And I pay fifty dollars an hour, starting right now with a hot dinner."
May you like
Maya stared at the warm interior of the car, then down at her threadbare jacket. She looked at Sophie, who was holding the door open, flashing a hopeful, encouraging smile.
Slowly, Maya stepped off the curb and climbed inside.
