Page 2 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

She waited a moment until the man got both crutches secure on his arms, lowered them to the first step and then hopped down.

He’d bent the broken leg, using it to help his balance as the rubber feet on the crutches found the next step.

The crutches clicked as they took his weight, and he said, ‘People have been walking past me for the last five minutes. I didn’t know how I was going to get down to the platform.

People in this city are so busy they . . . ’

SNAP!

The plastic handle broke off the case.

Not only did it stop the man speaking, but time itself seemed to stop for Elly. She froze. So did the man. They didn’t try to grab the case – no point. Instinctively, Elly’s hand reached for her mouth, and she drew in a fierce gasp.

They watched as it fell, almost in slow motion.

The case hit the steps and bounced into the air, somersaulting and then hitting them again, sending it tumbling down, down, down onto the platform with a dull thunk , and then the case burst open, charging cables, a laptop, underwear, socks – everything spilled out onto the platform.

‘ Oh my God, oh my God, I’m soooo sorry,’ said Elly over and over again, like a breathless mantra, as she hustled down the steps.

‘It’s okay. It was an accident,’ said the man, as he slowly and carefully made his way down.

Elly crouched down, instinctively, and began to gather the man’s items, placing them back into the case.

She felt sick and useless as she snatched his Calvin Klein underwear from the dirty platform, folded them and stuffed them into the open case.

This was all so inappropriate that she felt her cheeks burning with the shame of it.

She was out of breath. Her neck flushed red. Her nervous system flooded with the adrenalin that comes with total, immolating embarrassment.

The man reached the platform and as he tried to bend down to help her retrieve his personal items he overbalanced and fell, twisting to save his broken leg and landing on his ass.

‘Oh. My. God, are you alright? I’m so sorry! Jesus, what have I done?’

‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault,’ said the man.

They were both on the ground: Elly on her knees, the man on his ass. People walked past them, their knees, high heels, jeans and boots marching either side of them.

Elly and the man made eye contact and they both laughed, nervously. It broke the tension and Elly let out a relieved guffaw of laughter.

‘Let me help you up,’ she said, getting to her feet.

The man got his good foot beneath him, took Elly’s hand for balance, a crutch in the other, and soon was upright.

She gave him his other crutch, and wiped sweat from her forehead.

Everything was back in the case now. Not neatly, but it was there.

Elly dropped to a crouch, closed over the lid of the case and then felt around the edge, looking for the zipper. She found it.

The zipper was already fully closed.

On closer examination, she discovered the fabric part of the case on one side had come away from the seam attaching it to the hard shell. The case would not stay closed.

She lifted it, one hand underneath, the other hand on top, and said, ‘You don’t have, like, a band or something to hold this together?’

The man shook his head, said, ‘This has not been my week. I’ll have to go repack, leave some stuff at my apartment and take my backpack. I’ve just got time to do that and make it to the airport for my flight home.’

She put the case on the floor, rubbed her head.

‘I feel terrible, I’m so . . . ’

‘It’s not your fault. Honestly, I appreciate you trying to help. I can’t manage the stairs yet. I shattered my ankle at soccer practice and I’m still getting used to these damn things,’ he said, holding up one crutch.

Elly felt sick looking at the busted suitcase.

‘How are you going to get this case back to your apartment?’

He stared at it, said, ‘Maybe if I jam it under my arm? That should keep it closed. Could you help me lift it under there?’

Elly sighed, checked her watch. She didn’t have any appointments for hours. This was supposed to be preparation time.

‘How far is your apartment?’ she asked.

‘Just a few blocks over.’

Elly picked up the case, held it closed in her arms, said, ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’

‘No, I couldn’t ask you to—’

‘It’s the least I can do. If I don’t help you, then I’ll just feel awful all day,’ she said.

By the time the man had made his way back up the steps, he was out of breath.

‘Thank you, I actually don’t know how I would make it back without you. I’m Logan,’ he said.

‘Elly,’ she said, and made sure to slow her pace, matching Logan’s unsteady, halted movements with the crutches.

They made it out of the station onto 42 nd Street and Logan moved to the crosswalk.

The case wasn’t heavy, even with the contents inside, but it was awkward to hold and walk with the damn thing.

She held it tucked underneath her left arm, her fingers just reaching the bottom side.

She gripped it tightly and held it closed so it wouldn’t open far enough for his underwear, or anything else, to fall out.

As they crossed the street, her left arm began to tire and she switched, awkwardly, almost spilling the case again in the middle of the crosswalk.

‘Jesus, there’s no way you could’ve gotten this thing back to your apartment by yourself,’ said Elly.

‘I know. I was just too embarrassed to ask for help,’ said Logan.

‘You don’t get to be embarrassed – you’re injured. I’m fully functional, but it was me who managed to toss your case down the steps hard enough to break it.’

‘It was the cheap handle,’ said Logan. ‘You’ve been nothing but kind. No one else stopped to help me.’

‘Most people in this city are too busy to help a stranger,’ said Elly. ‘It’s kinda sad. We should help out more.’

They reached the other side of the street and kept going south until they hit 40 th .

A man in a large, filthy coat sat on a cardboard bed on the corner.

No way of telling how old he was. Homeless people age faster.

The streets of New York are like time machines.

One night on a sidewalk feels like a week.

A week feels like a year, and it shows on the faces of the homeless, and in their eyes.

Elly slowed, shifted the case under a different arm so she could reach into her pants pocket. She brought out five dollars and handed it to the man. He looked sleepy. He took the money, quizzically at first, then stared up at Elly. He mouthed a thank-you .

Elly and Logan walked on.

‘You’re a good person, Elly,’ said Logan.

‘I try to do one thing every day to help somebody. I haven’t done that in a while.

I’m not really that good of a person,’ said Elly, thinking about James and Harriet.

They had both hurt her deeply. A wound that she would carry on her heart for a long time.

Yet they didn’t deserve to have their lives ruined for one mistake.

‘You don’t take compliments too easily,’ he said, smiling.

‘Like I said, I’m not so good. I just try to make up for my mistakes. Makes me feel better.’

‘So I’m one of your charity cases? Like that guy on the corner?’ he said again, smiling.

‘Maybe,’ said Elly, ‘but he’s in better shape than you. How did you say you broke your foot?’

‘Ankle, playing soccer. Guy stepped on my foot when I was going for the ball.’

‘Ouch.’

‘You’re telling me. I’ve got plates and screws and all kinds in there . . . Oh, wait, we’re here,’ he said, stopping outside an apartment complex.

It was an old building and from the bags of cement, plaster, buckets and tools piled up in the lobby, it looked as if it was about to get some much-needed maintenance and repairs. Logan hit the button for the elevator and waited.

It was cold outside, but surprisingly warm in the small lobby.

Elly noticed the elevator button hadn’t illuminated when Logan hit it.

She wondered if he had not pressed it correctly; he’d still had his arm slung through a crutch at the time.

She pressed it, firmly. The button didn’t illuminate.

Logan leaned toward the elevator doors, rapidly pressed the call button, and listened for a few seconds.

Elly couldn’t hear any of the usual noises that elevators make.

No mechanical whirr from the jib wheel lowering the counterbalance, no distant rattle of elevator doors closing on an upper floor.

Logan leaned back and looked at the LCD display fixed on the top of the elevator doors.

‘I cannot believe this,’ he said. ‘Yesterday, the garbage chute got blocked, today the elevator. I’m sorry, my building is a mess. My ankle is a mess, and my life is a mess.’

‘It’s okay. What floor are you on?’

‘Third?’ said Logan, the pitch of that one-word reply rising at the end, changing it into a question instead of a statement.

‘Well, I’ve come this far,’ said Elly. ‘No point in leaving you with the case here. Stairs are not your friend. Come on, I’ll race you,’ she said.

‘No fair,’ said Logan, and they both laughed as he pointed Elly in the direction of the stairwell.

This was, in so many ways, a pain in the ass for Elly.

She hated stairs, but she thought Logan was funny and a little cute in his own way.

More than anything else, she was glad of the distraction.

This poor guy had busted his ankle, and then Elly had busted his case.

For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about the pain of having been betrayed by the two people in her life that she had loved and trusted the most – she wasn’t thinking about the millions of people who had watched her walk in on her husband while he was in bed with her best friend, she wasn’t thinking about the tsunami of abuse that followed James and Harriet and how, somehow, Elly bore responsibility for that too.

Logan’s broken ankle, broken case and shit-out-of-luck life was making her feel better in every way.