Chapter 17 · Knocking Under the Counter

The knocking started an hour into my shift.

Not at the door. Not on the window. Under the counter. Three taps, pause, three more. Like someone trapped in the cabinet where we kept the plastic bags and Marco's cigarettes he thought I didn't know about.

I crouched down, yanked the cabinet open. Empty except for the bags and a half-crushed pack of Marlboros.

The knocking came again. Directly beneath my feet this time.

I backed up so fast I hit the register. The scanner clattered to the floor. My phone buzzed—another voicemail from the number that shouldn't exist. I didn't want to listen. Didn't want to hear that voice again, the one that sounded like Mom but wrong, like a recording played through water.

Three more knocks. Softer now. Almost gentle.

"Layla?"

I froze. That came from below the counter. Muffled but clear.

"Baby, can you hear me?"

My throat closed up. I knew that voice. Knew it the way you know your own heartbeat. Mom used to call me baby when she tucked me in, when she braided my hair, when she told me everything would be okay even though I could hear her crying in the bathroom later.