The name of the cafe down my street was Banana.

The place was nothing but a narrow, curved room with a row of tables, windows at one side, and a bar at the other. The tabletops were the same faded yellow as the counter and the stained curtains, all of them dating back to the last millennium.

Theresa was still wearing my sweater—I had offered her something smaller, but she had said she liked it. The sweater was black, but its fleece paled against the shimmering midnight of her hair.

Her legs were now in a pair of my jeans, rolled up to fit her shorter size.

She didn't seem to care about her looks, though, as she dug into a stack of pancakes.

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

For a moment, her fork hovered before her unpainted lips. Then she took the bite, chewed and swallowed, all of it while shrugging her shoulders repeatedly. "I don't know," she finally said. "This is... a disaster."

She slumped her shoulders and toyed with her knife.

"Don't you have a friend you can turn to... or a relative?" I remembered the 97 new messages on her phone. A woman like her would have more contacts in her address book than the number of all the people I had met since childhood.

"As I told you yesterday, most of my friends are folks that Thierry knows. If I went to one of them, he'd find me. And, no, there are no relatives to speak of."

"And... no boyfriend or fiancé?" I didn't care who she fooled around with, of course, yet curiosity goaded me on. "Or some ex or a prospective match you could call?"

She had her gaze on her plate. "No... not really. Well, some men are interested. They always are. But I'm not."

I waited for her to elaborate.

She looked up, and her blue stare hit me. "Look, I know what you think of me... a jet-set girl, wild parties, countless friends, love at my feet..." She pulled down the corners of her mouth. "I'd love to say that's true. But I don't want to lie to you. Things are not what they look like. My life's much less glamorous from the inside than from the outside. It's... it was very much controlled by my father... and by Thierry. I've spent most of it at home... Homeschooled, guarded by servants, protected by dad, bossed by Thierry... shielded by the walls around our garden."

"But all those messages on your phone... You must know someone you can ask for help."

She shook her head. "Believe me... these are from family friends or from people Thierry knows at least as well as I do. He's the mesmerizing one, the charming one, and they all dote on him. I'm just his embarrassing sister."

I sipped my coffee from a yellow cup, and she continued attacking her pancake. This woman needed help, but I wasn't the one who could give it.

"You should see a lawyer," I said.

"What would I tell them? What could they do for me?"

I shrugged. "What about the truth? Just tell them your story. Ask them for advice."

"I don't like attorneys, lawyers. And I guess that Thierry knows about half of them in this city. He studied law before he began his work at TCorp... Or, at least, he attended the law students' parties." She stabbed the last piece of her pancake with her fork, the tines clanging against the vanilla-colored plate.

This was getting nowhere, and I had to be at Royal Sandwiches in half an hour.

"A private investigator, then?" I said as I waved at the waitress to bring us the bill.

She shrugged. "What for?"

"Someone to help you find the proof you're looking for... evidence that Thierry has been stealing from TCorp... or that he killed your dad."

She swallowed. "That might be helpful, yeah."

I glanced at my watch. "Look, I've gotta go to work. I don't want to get fired again."

Yes, I didn't want to lose my job as Sandwich King. I didn't want to be dethroned, stripped of my royal privileges. Cutting bread was so much better than twiddling thumbs.

Her eyes widened. "What... you work? Didn't you just lose your job?"

"Yes, but I need money to stay afloat. So I've found myself another work." 

The waitress brought us the bill, Theresa paid in cash.

She looked at me, her wallet still in her hand. "Talking about money... Yesterday, you said you didn't want mine, but... you know, I'd love to help you. After all, you lost your job because of me."

Her gaze on me was steady, her lips parted as if breathless for my answer.

I still didn't need her generosity, nor did I want it. But in contrast to yesterday, her offer didn't anger me. "I'm fine. But... thank you."

The white teeth revealed by her smile clashed with the yellow-themed interior of the Banana Cafe.

I got up. "Let's go. I really have to hurry now."

We left the place and headed down the street towards my apartment.

"When will you be back?" she asked.

"After eight, maybe even later." I watched her from the corner of my eyes as I continued our fast-paced walk. "Would you... like to stay in my apartment today?"

Was I inviting her? I was.

Her face lit up. "If I may... Yes, that would be wonderful."

We had reached the house, and I unlocked the door, motioning her inside. "Okay, until you've found something. A couple of days." A thought occurred to me. "How much cash do you have on you?"

She looked at me, brows raised. "Oh, no problem... As I said, I'd love to pay something."

"No... not for that. You can clean that pan and my kitchen for rent." I grinned. "But you'll have to pay the private investigator. And, as you explained, you're afraid of getting located when you use your credit card. So, here's what you should do today..."

As we ascended to my apartment, I told her to find an ATM, in another part of the city, and to get a stash of cash to last for a long time. I also asked her to search for a private investigator. I gave her the log-in to my laptop for surfing the internet.

On an afterthought, I hesitated, wondering if I could trust her with access to my computer. But things couldn't get worse now, could they? At worst, she would find proof of me stalking Thierry when inspecting my browser's history. 

When I prepared to leave, she grabbed my arm.

"Thanks," she said.

I nodded. "Sure."

The pressure of her warm fingers on my wrist increased. "I mean it. You don't have any reason to help me. And yet you do."

"I..." I searched my brain for my motives. She had a point—why should I help her? "I think Thierry needs to face the consequences of his acts. And... I just want to help you."

"Oh." Her grin was the broadest I'd ever seen on her, etching small wrinkles into the corner of her eyes. She let go of me, and her gaze left mine. "I... I think I have to do some cleaning now."

She padded towards the kitchen, a small figure in an oversized sweater. I turned away—I didn't want to witness her housekeeping skills.

And the sandwiches were waiting for me.

~~~

It was late evening when I returned after a boring day of bread cutting.

I had not called my mother, hadn't found the peace of mind, the composure, or the courage to do so. And now it was too late in the evening. I'd do it soon, though. Seriously.

The apartment was dark, Theresa was gone.

Where was she?

I shrugged. She had probably found something better than my dump.

I walked over to the sink. The frying pan was on the draining rack, and it was clean. I stowed it away.

Did she leave a note somewhere? I checked, but there was nothing.

The blankets and the quilt she had spent the night under were in a rumpled pile on the sofa. I sat down beside them, tracing the rough contours of the quilt's garish squares with my finger. It smelled of lemon—her perfume. Not the worst scent.

Since I had moved out from my mother, I had never lived with anyone. I didn't need that, nor did I want it. Being the master of your own place was so much neater, so much safer. You made the rules, and you followed them, without anyone to interfere, to make a mess, or to drag in problems that weren't your own.

I didn't need Theresa hanging around here.

I got up again, went to the window, and peered down into the alley. Her car was gone.

Tomorrow would be my day off. Paul had decided we'd be closed because the weather forecast predicted rain.

And he had given me a promotion—I was not only Sandwich King now, but I also held the keys to the kingdom because I'd be the one to open Royal Sandwiches the morning after tomorrow.

So, next day, I'd have time. I could have gone seeing a private investigator with Theresa. I even had forged plans for that, figured out questions we should ask.

But she was gone now, and all my planning had been for naught.

Where the hell was the woman?

I didn't even have her phone number, nor had she mine.

Had Thierry found her?

It took me a long time to fall asleep that night.