Mrs. Rodriguez, who ran the kitchen, shook her head firmly. "No children here yesterday. The kitchen was closed for repairs."
The lie came so naturally, so protectively, that Keisha's heart swelled with gratitude. Mrs. Rodriguez had spotted her hiding and was buying her time.
When the men left, Keisha slipped away through back alleys she knew like a map. Someone was looking for her. Someone dangerous.
She made it back to the parking lot as her mother was having another coughing fit, this one worse than usual. Blood specks dotted the tissue when Denise pulled it away from her mouth.
"Mama, you need a doctor."
"Doctors cost money, baby." Denise's voice was barely a whisper. "Money we don't have."
Keisha bit her lip. The free clinic had a 3-week waiting list—3 weeks her mother didn't have.
"I saw something yesterday," Keisha said quietly. "Something bad."
Denise struggled to focus. "What kind of bad?"
"A man putting wires under a fancy car. Then later, boom." Keisha gestured toward downtown where smoke still wisped skyward. "But I told the car man to run. He's okay."
"Oh, baby." Denise's eyes filled with tears. "You can't get involved in grown-up problems. Promise me."
But it was too late. The grown-up problems had already found them.
At Blackstone Industries, Marcus Davidson paced his office like a caged predator. His phone buzzed with updates from his hired men.
"Still no sign of that kid," the voice reported. "But we're getting close. Someone's protecting her."
Marcus's jaw tightened. The bomb should have ended this cleanly: Richard dead, Marcus inheriting control of the company through their partnership agreement, plus a hefty life insurance payout. Simple, profitable. Now, there was a witness—a child who'd seen him plant the device.
"Find her," Marcus snarled into the phone. "And when you do, make sure she can't talk to anyone. Ever."
He hung up and composed his face into concern just as Richard knocked on his door.
"Any leads on who might want you dead?" Marcus asked, playing his role perfectly.
Richard shook his head. "But I'm going to find that girl. She deserves to be rewarded for her courage."
"Richard, maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie. Whoever did this might target anyone connected to you."
"Are you saying I should abandon the child who saved my life?"
Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm saying some stones are better left unturned."
After Richard left, Marcus made another call. "Change of plans. Find the girl, but don't harm her yet. Use her as leverage. If Richard gets too close to the truth, we'll need insurance."
Back in the abandoned lot, Keisha watched her mother sleep and felt the weight of impossible choices: save a stranger and endanger her family; stay silent and let evil win. Grandma's voice echoed in her memory: Baby girl, sometimes doing right feels wrong at first. But wrong that feels right? That's the devil talking.
Keisha pulled her thin jacket tighter and made her decision. Tomorrow she'd find the kind-eyed man. Not for reward or recognition, but because the men in dark suits were still looking for her, which meant they were still dangerous. If she was going to be hunted anyway, she might as well help catch the real monster.
Richard found her at dawn, sitting on the steps of St. Mary's Cathedral. She looked even smaller in daylight, a tiny figure wrapped in a jacket three sizes too big, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of hope.
"You're a hard person to find," he said gently, settling beside her on the cold stone steps.
Keisha tensed, ready to bolt, but something in his voice stopped her. No threat, no demand—just gratitude.
"You're the car man." Not a question.
"Richard Blackstone." He extended his hand formally, as if she were an important business partner. "And you saved my life."
Keisha studied his face: the kind eyes she remembered, now creased with exhaustion and worry. Slowly, she shook his hand with her small, cold fingers. "Keisha Washington."
"Nice to meet you, Keisha Washington." Richard's voice carried genuine warmth. "I owe you everything."
"You don't owe me anything." She pulled her jacket tighter. "Mama taught me to help people. That's just what you do."
Richard felt something crack open in his chest. When had he last heard such simple, pure morality? In his world, everything had a price, an angle, a hidden agenda. "Your mama sounds wise."
Keisha's expression clouded. "She's sick. Really sick. And men in suits have been asking about me." Her young voice carried old fear. "I think they are the bad men."
"What bad men?"
"The ones who put the bomb under your car." Keisha looked directly at him. "I saw everything."
Richard's blood chilled. This child wasn't just his savior; she was the key witness to his attempted murder. And someone was hunting her.
"Keisha, I need to ask you something very important. Do you trust me?"
She considered this seriously, studying his face with the intensity of someone who'd learned to read adults for survival signs. "My grandma used to say you can tell good people by their eyes. Scared people got shifty eyes. Mean people got dead eyes. Good people..." She tilted her head. "Good people got sad eyes, like they care too much about everything."
Richard almost smiled. "And what kind of eyes do I have?"
"Sad ones. But the kind of sad that wants to fix things." She paused. "Yeah. I trust you."
"Then let me help you. Let me protect you and your mother."
"We don't take charity." Pride straightened her small shoulders.
"It's not charity. It's payment for saving my life. A debt I need to repay."
Keisha shook her head firmly. "Doing right ain't supposed to get you paid. That's just being good."