Chapter 2 - The Driver Who Kept Returning
Adrien came back three nights later.
I told myself it was coincidence.
Philadelphia had thousands of streets, hundreds of taxis, and exactly zero convincing reasons for the same driver to be waiting outside St. Catherine's Hospital at 11:47 p.m.
Yet there he was.
The yellow cab idled beneath the emergency entrance.
I stopped under the awning.
Adrien lowered the passenger window.
“Heater's still broken.”
I stared at him.
“That's your sales pitch?”
“It worked last time.”
“Barely.”
“Did Evan like the sandwich?”
That did it.
I walked toward the cab.
“You remembered his name.”
“You mentioned it.”
“Once.”
“I have a good memory.”
I climbed into the front passenger seat this time.
His eyes flicked toward me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked surprised.”
“Most passengers sit in back.”
“Most taxi drivers don't buy dinner for their passengers' relatives.”
“Fair.”
He drove.
The next two weeks developed a rhythm neither of us acknowledged.
Sometimes I called the number he'd given me.
Sometimes he simply appeared.
He refused to admit how he always knew when my shift ended.
I assumed the hospital taxi line was predictable.
The truth was significantly more ridiculous.
Adrien's security team monitored the parking garage.
I learned that months later.
At the time, what I learned was that he liked black coffee, hated sweet pickles, had unexpectedly strong opinions about jazz, and knew every diner in Philadelphia that stayed open after two in the morning.
He learned that I hated raisins, slept badly after losing patients, and carried peppermint gum because the smell of trauma-room disinfectant followed me home otherwise.
I also discovered that silence with him didn't feel awkward.
That was dangerous.
Most people tried to fill silence.
Adrien seemed comfortable inside it.
One rainy Thursday, I found him parked across from the hospital staring at his phone.
For the first time, he hadn't noticed me approaching.
His screen showed a photograph.
Three men standing beside a loading dock.
One face had been circled.
Adrien locked the phone instantly.
“Work?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Taxi work?”
A beat.
“Complicated taxi work.”
“I'm beginning to think your employment contract has unusual responsibilities.”
He opened my door.
I climbed inside.
Ten minutes later we were stopped at a red light when somebody pounded on the passenger window.
A man stood outside.
Thirty, maybe thirty-five.
Blood covered one side of his shirt.
He looked terrified.
“Hospital,” I said immediately.
I lowered the window before Adrien could stop me.
The wounded man's eyes moved from me to Adrien.
Everything changed.
His face went white.
“Mr. Vale.”
Adrien didn't move.
The man's breathing became shallow.
“I didn't know this was your car.”
My head turned slowly.
“You know him?”
Adrien's jaw tightened.
“No.”
The wounded man stared.
I stared.
Adrien reached across me and unlocked the rear door.
“Get in.”
The man obeyed instantly.
Not argued.
Not hesitated.
Obeyed.
My medical instincts overrode curiosity.
I climbed into the back beside him and pressed my hand over his wound.
“Gunshot?”
“Knife.”
“Who did it?”
He glanced at Adrien.
“Accident.”
“People rarely accidentally get stabbed in the ribs.”
Adrien drove faster.
I pressed harder against the wound.
The man groaned.
“What is your name?”
“Marco.”
“Stay awake, Marco.”
He laughed weakly.
“You tell me, nurse.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes shifted toward Adrien.
“Boss—”
Adrien spoke sharply.
“Don't.”
Silence.
I looked at him.
Boss?
We reached St. Catherine's.
Orderlies rushed Marco inside.
I stayed long enough to give trauma the basic information.
When I returned outside, Adrien was gone.
So was the taxi.
My stomach tightened.
I called his number.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I was angry.
At 2:13 a.m. my phone buzzed.
Adrien.
I answered.
“You disappeared.”
“Marco needed treatment.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Silence.
“Who is he?”
“Someone I know.”
“You told me you didn't.”
“I didn't want you involved.”
“Involved in what?”
Another silence.
“Adrien.”
“I owe him money.”
That answer came too smoothly.
I recognized lies.
Emergency nurses heard them constantly.
I only had two beers.
I fell down the stairs.
My boyfriend never hurts me.
I accidentally swallowed twelve pills.
And now:
I owe him money.
“Fine,” I said.
“Tessa—”
“Good night.”
I ended the call.
The next morning, Marco disappeared from the hospital.
Not discharged.
Disappeared.
His bed was empty.
His chart said he had left against medical advice.
Security footage from the hallway had malfunctioned for exactly twenty-two minutes.
That bothered me.
What bothered me more was finding an envelope inside my locker.
No stamp.
No handwriting.
Inside was eight hundred dollars.
The exact amount my mechanic had quoted for the minimum repair needed to keep my car moving.
I marched outside.
The yellow taxi was waiting.
Adrien stood beside it.
I shoved the envelope against his chest.
“No.”
His hand closed around it automatically.
“You need the repair.”
“And you need boundaries.”
“I was helping.”
“You bought my nephew food. Fine. You drive me when my schedule is terrible. Fine. This?”
I pushed the money harder.
“This is not fine.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I didn't earn it.”
“You work twelve-hour shifts.”
“Not for you.”
“You need transportation.”
“I need a lot of things. That doesn't make them your responsibility.”
Something flashed across his expression.
Not anger.
Respect.
Maybe surprise.
“I'll pay you back.”
“No.”
“Then we're done.”
That landed.
He looked at me.
I hadn't meant romantically.
There was nothing romantic between us.
Not officially.
But the words stayed there.
Adrien slowly took the envelope.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He opened the taxi door.
I hesitated.
“You're still driving me?”
“Apparently.”
I climbed in.
Halfway home, he said, “Nobody refuses money from me.”
“That sounds like an ego problem.”
“It might be.”
“You should get that checked.”
He smiled.
A real one this time.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said quietly, “What happened to Evan's mother?”
I looked out the window.
“My sister died three years ago.”
“I am sorry.”
“Cancer.”
He didn't tell me everything happened for a reason.
He didn't tell me she was in a better place.
He simply waited.
“She was thirty-five.”
Adrien's grip tightened on the wheel.
“Evan's father?”
“Decided parenthood was optional.”
Adrien nodded.
“If he comes back?”
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because people who love you don't disappear when staying becomes inconvenient.”
The words came out harder than I intended.
Adrien became very still.
I didn't understand why.
Not yet.
He drove me home.
This time, he walked me to the door.
Rain fell softly around us.
“Good night, Tessa.”
I turned.
“Adrien?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you're hiding…”
His expression changed.
“…make sure it isn't something that gets Evan hurt.”
The softness left his face.
“If anyone ever came near him because of me, I would handle it.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn't meant to be.”
The door closed behind me.
Across the street, a man photographed us from inside a parked sedan.
Thirty minutes later, that photograph was delivered to a man named Victor Moretti.
Victor looked at it for a long time.
Then smiled.
May you like
“So,” he whispered.
“Adrien Vale finally has something to lose.”
