Secure Location - By Beverly Long Page 0,30

if his greatest interest in the world was a piece of chicken that could have used some salt, he’d been busy studying the room.

They’d whipped the place into shape. It looked way different than it had earlier this morning. They had dimmed the lighting slightly, making it more intimate. It also made it more difficult for him to see more than a hundred yards out. Even so, he still had a view of the tables he was most interested in. He figured if somebody intended to harm Meg, they’d have a spot near the front because the logical points of escape were the side doors on the left and right side of the room.

Meg was right. He had checked out the doors when he’d been here earlier. The rear doors led to the lobby. If anyone tried to escape that way, too many people would see or maybe even try to apprehend him.

The side door on the left led to a hallway that led to the kitchen. There were stairs midway that led to a street-level exit. The side door on the right led to a bank of elevators that went up twenty floors to guest rooms. If someone had a good head start in either direction, they’d be hard to find.

What he saw when he looked around the dining room didn’t concern him too much. When Meg had left his room earlier to get dressed, he’d taken five minutes to review the photos of all the employees who’d been termed by BJM Hotels within the past year. None of the faces at the tables looked familiar. Of course, now he was looking at the backs of a whole lot of heads. Once the program began, he figured people would turn their chairs and he’d get a look at their faces.

Waitstaff came around with dessert. Meg declined and the server, proving he was a fast study, allowed Cruz to pick one off a tray. It was angel food cake, strawberries and whipped cream, layered in a tall glass. The presentation was nice and it tasted significantly better than the chicken.

Then Beatrice pushed her chair back and came up to the podium. She was so short that she had to pull down the adjustable microphone or it would have conked her in the forehead.

“Thank you so much for coming. You’ve demonstrated a great commitment to A Hand Up. When we contemplated this program a few years ago...”

Blah, blah, blah. Cruz kept his eyes moving, watching the crowd. He’d been right. The people with their backs to the stage were turning their chairs. He scanned the room and didn’t see anything that worried him.

Saw a bunch of things that annoyed him, though. People were checking their phones and a few were chatting to the person next to them. A couple even had their eyes closed, taking a short snooze. Idiots. They’d dropped serious change to be here and they couldn’t even pretend to be interested.

His dear mother would have smacked them up alongside their heads. Be respectful. She’d drilled it into her children’s heads. If somebody is talking to you, be quiet and listen. If someone older comes into the room, get up and give him your seat. If you can hold the door for someone, do it.

He hadn’t always embraced the lessons. In Chicago, especially on the south side of the city, kids grew up quick. At ten, he’d been a troublemaker. At eleven, a punk. At twelve, on the fast track to juvie. His mother had worried and pleaded and prayed. His father had yelled and drank and yelled some more.

Then he’d left.

And life got even harder for the Montoyas. If not for his mom, and the strength of both her character and her back, as she worked twelve-hour days cleaning hotel rooms, he might well have ended up on the wrong side of a jail cell, like the young men in this room who either had been or were currently clients of A Hand Up.

“...a great honor to introduce a wonderful partner to A Hand Up. She is a woman who understands the importance of giving others purpose. She has the rare ability to encourage others to reach for the stars while making sure that the ladder they’re standing on is nice and steady. Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Meg Montoya.”

Meg pushed her chair back. He wanted to squeeze her hand or pat her back—something to reassure her. He kept his hands down. Those days were gone.