Chapter 4 - The Toolbox Deception
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The next morning, the man who called himself Jack appeared in the chaotic, steam-filled hospital kitchen. He was carrying a brand-new, bright red toolbox that looked like it had been purchased from a hardware store twenty minutes ago.
Denise, the head cook, stopped chopping onions and stared at him. Then, she stared at the box. “Honey, that toolbox still has the barcode sticker on it.”
Alexander discreetly peeled the sticker off with his thumb, his face impassive.
Emily, carrying a massive tray of scrambled eggs, walked over and covered her mouth to hide a smirk. “Very authentic, Jack. Did it come with a manual?”
“I’m checking the exhaust system,” Alexander stated, trying to project blue-collar authority.
Denise crossed her arms, clearly amused. “Be my guest. Try not to blow up the soup.”
Alexander set the toolbox down on a stainless-steel prep counter. He popped the latch and stared at the array of gleaming, untouched tools. He reached in and confidently pulled out a wrench.
Ten seconds later, Emily walked over, gently took the wrench from his hand, and placed it back in the box. She handed him a Phillips-head screwdriver instead.
“Wrong one,” she said softly.
“I knew that,” Alexander lied.
“Sure you did.” She leaned in just a fraction, the scent of vanilla and coffee radiating off her. “Try not to shut down the hospital, facilities guy. Some of us actually need our paychecks.”
Over the following week, Jack became a permanent fixture in Emily’s orbit. A loose cabinet hinge in the kitchen suddenly required his urgent, daily attention. Then a flickering fluorescent light near the breakroom. Then a leaky sink.
Emily wasn't stupid. She suspected that either Crownridge Medical Center was suffering catastrophic structural failure, or Jack had an oddly specific interest in being exactly where she was. Strangely, she found that she didn’t mind it as much as she pretended to.
He was quiet, observant, and terrible at small talk, but he listened to her. When she complained about Margaret’s lawyers threatening her, his jaw would clench. When she talked about Noah, his eyes would soften.
“You know,” Emily said one Friday as he unsuccessfully tried to tighten a pipe, “you are the worst maintenance worker I have ever seen.”
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Alexander looked up, wiping a streak of grease from his cheek. “I’m a slow learner.”
“Or,” Emily smiled, “you’re just here for the free food.”
