Chapter 10
The call came just after nine. I was folding the clean aprons in the laundry room when his phone rang in the hallway. I didn't mean to listen. I heard him answer, heard the pause, heard his voice drop.
"When," he said. "Where did they go."
I stood with an apron half-folded in my hands. My knuckles still showed pink where the skin had split. He stood at the end of the hall with his back to me, one hand on the paneled wall. He didn't look at me.
"They parked. They asked for him by name. No contact, just eyes on the place," someone said on the other end. He hung up and finally turned.
He looked at me and I already knew. My brother's group home was on Willow, behind the gas station. I'd told him that two nights ago when he'd pressed me for the address. I shouldn't have, and now I was glad I had.
"They were at his building," he said. "They didn't get inside. Staff called it in because the car didn't belong."
My chest went tight. "Is he okay."
"He's inside. He's safe. For now." He walked toward me. "I'm having him brought here. Tonight."
I shook my head before he'd finished. "You can't just take him. He has meds, he has a schedule. He doesn't know you. He'll be scared."
"He'll be safer scared than alone," he said. "I have a car ten minutes out. You can tell his caseworker I will cover liability. But he's not spending another night where they know the door."
I wanted to argue. I held the apron so tight my hands hurt. I thought about the hallway on Willow, the buzzed front door that never latched right, the parking lot where anyone could sit and watch. I nodded once.
"Okay," I said. My voice was thin. "Okay, bring him here."
We waited in the kitchen because it felt less formal than the hallway. He'd told the staff to pack his overnight bag, his inhaler, his homework folder. I kept checking the kitchen window even though the driveway was on the other side of the house. He stood near the island, arms crossed, not touching me, just there. Every time a car passed on the county road my shoulders jumped.
Headlights finally swept the front windows. A black SUV stopped under the portico. I was at the door before he was.
Two men got out. Not the crew, his guys, I recognized one from the front gate. Between them was my brother.
He looked smaller than I remembered. He had his gray backpack on both shoulders and his blue inhaler case clipped to the zipper. His hair was messy like he'd been lying down. His jeans were too short at the ankle. When he saw me his face broke open.
"Sadia?"
I dropped to my knees right there on the cold tile of the entryway and he ran into me. He smelled like laundry detergent and the apple juice they gave him after dinner. I felt his ribs through his t-shirt, felt how fast he was breathing.
"Hey, bug," I whispered into his hair. "Hey. I've got you."
He clung to me. I felt his backpack pressing into my arm. Over his shoulder I saw the tattooed man watching us, his expression held back, his hands at his sides.
My brother pulled back just enough to look at my face, then at the house behind me. His eyes went wide at the high ceiling, the dark wood trim, the brass hall light.
"Where are we," he whispered. "Is this your work?"
"Yeah," I said. I brushed his hair flat with my palm. "You remember I told you I work at a big house? This is it. You're going to stay with me here for a few days, okay? Like a sleepover."
He nodded, but his breathing didn't slow. He looked at the man in the black shirt and stepped closer to me. His hand found the edge of my apron and held it.
"Are you the boss," he asked. His voice was small.
The man crouched down so he wasn't towering. It was the first time I'd seen him try to make himself smaller. His neck tattoos caught the warm light.
"I am," he said quietly. "My name is still the same as I told your sister. You can stay in the room next to hers. There's a lock on the inside if you want it."
My brother didn't answer. He looked at me for translation, the way he always did when an adult used words that needed checking.
"He means you're safe here," I said. "Nobody comes in without us saying so."
He nodded again and coughed, a wet little cough that rattled. I automatically reached for his backpack, unzipped the front pocket, checked for the inhaler. It was there. His daily pill case was there too, Tuesday already empty, Wednesday still full. He'd missed his evening dose window.
"You didn't take your meds yet," I said.
"The lady packed them but she said to wait for you," he said.
I stood and took his hand. "Come on. Let's get you water."
In the guest room they'd put clean sheets on the bed and a second toothbrush still in plastic on the sink. Someone had thought to leave a glass of water and a small lamp on. It was too nice, and that made it scarier. My brother sat on the edge of the big bed with his feet not touching the floor. He stared at the paneled walls like they'd close in.
"Do you live here all the time," he asked me.
"For now," I said. I knelt and took his shoes off. His socks had a hole at the big toe. "You know how I had to borrow money for your clinic? Some bad people got mad about it. That's why you're here. So they can't find you at Willow."
His mouth pressed tight. "Are they mad at me."
"No," I said fast. "No, bug, never at you. At me. Because I didn't pay fast enough. It's my job to fix it, not yours."
He looked past me to where the man stood in the doorway, not entering, giving us space but not leaving. My brother's hand tightened on mine.
"Is he mad at you too," he whispered.
That was the moment I understood. I'd been trying to keep two stories separate — the debt in one house, the boy in the other — so he wouldn't have to carry it. But he'd carried it anyway, and now he'd walked right into the middle of it. The mansion wasn't a secret I could keep from him anymore. The hallway, the phone, the tattoos, the way I flinched — he saw all of it.
"He's trying to help," I said. I kept my voice steady for him. "He's the reason they didn't get to you tonight."
My brother studied the man again, longer this time. The man didn't smile to force it. He just nodded once, serious, like he was making a promise to a peer, not a child.
May you like
"Okay," my brother said finally, very quietly.
I helped him swallow his pill, watched his throat move, then tucked the blanket around him while he still sat upright. He leaned his head on my shoulder and I felt his breathing even out, finally. I didn't know how to tell him we might be here for days, that the house that was supposed to be my job was now his shelter too.
