Chapter 3
He didn't move from the hallway.
I thought if I stayed pressed against the wall long enough he'd step back into his office and close the door. He didn't. The dark wood door stayed open behind him and the warm light from inside fell across the cream panels and across his black shirt. He'd taken the phone from my hand in the last chapter and ended the call, and now it was just the two of us and the brass hinge catching light.
"Who was that," he said again. Not a question this time.
I swallowed and my throat clicked. My hand was still up near my chest, knuckles showing. I tried to tuck it behind me.
"No one," I said. "Wrong number."
He looked at my hand. Then at my face. "Don't lie to me, Sadia."
The way he said my name made my eyes sting again. I hadn't realized the voice on the phone had used it. He had. You have one hour, Sadia.
I shook my head. "It's not work," I whispered. "It's not about this house. Please."
He took one step closer. Not touching me. Close enough I could see the ink on his throat move when he breathed. "I heard what he said about your brother. Tell me what you owe."
My stomach dropped. I hadn't told him about any debt. I hadn't told anyone in this house. The words got stuck and I stared at the baseboard like it would open up.
"It's just money," I finally said. My voice was so small. "I borrowed. It's not a lot."
"How much."
"Eight thousand," I said, and then immediately wished I hadn't. The truth had just slipped out before I could make it smaller. "It was for my brother. He was sick. He needed medicine we couldn't get at the clinic and I didn't have insurance that covered it."
He didn't react the way I expected. No anger. His jaw just tightened.
"Who holds it now," he said.
I shook my head fast. "You don't need to know that. I'll handle it. I told them to stay away from him. That's all they wanted."
He watched me cover my mouth with my hand again, the same hand with the red, cracked skin over the knuckles. He'd noticed it on the video, in that first wide shot of me on the floor. He noticed it now.
"Look at your hands," he said quietly.
I curled my fingers in. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. What did you do to them."
I felt heat crawl up my neck. Shame did that, made you hot and cold at once. "I took extra shifts. Dishes at a diner on County Road 9. They don't have gloves that fit right and the water's too hot. I scrubbed pans after midnight so I could make payments. That's all."
He was quiet for a beat. I could hear the soft hum of the hallway light and my own breathing, too fast.
"They're using your brother as leverage," he said. It wasn't a question.
I nodded. My eyes filled again and I didn't wipe them. "He's fourteen. He has asthma bad enough he was in the ER twice last winter. He lives with my aunt two towns over because I can't keep him here. They found out where he goes to school. That man on the phone, he said—" I stopped. I couldn't repeat the one hour part out loud.
He seemed to understand anyway. He glanced down the hallway toward the kitchen, then back at me. "Come with me. You're not standing out here."
I didn't want to move. My legs felt like they might give if I tried. But he didn't grab me. He just waited, then turned and walked toward the service kitchen, expecting I'd follow. After a second I did, my socks silent on the runner.
The kitchen was warmer, all stainless and white tile, the night light over the stove. He pulled out one of the stools at the island and nodded to it. I sat because my knees were shaking.
He leaned against the counter opposite me, arms crossed, tattoos stark against the black satin. "Eight thousand," he repeated. "And the man on the phone gave you an hour."
I flinched. "How did you—"
"I heard him," he said. "And I heard what I said after. Touch the boy and I'll bury your entire crew. I meant it."
I stared at him. The man I'd worked for for months, who barely spoke to me except to leave a list on the fridge, who kept his door closed. The stern restrained one who'd found me sobbing against his office wall.
"You can't do that," I whispered. "You don't even know them. Please don't call them. You'll make it worse. If they think I told my boss they'll—"
"They will not touch him," he said. It was flat, final.
"But the debt is real," I said, and my voice cracked. "I signed the papers. I didn't read everything right. The interest— I thought I could pay it off in a few months. I was wrong."
He studied me for a long moment. I could see him deciding. Not whether to help, but how, and whether I'd let him.
"I need the number that called you," he said. "And the name on the papers if you have it."
I wiped my cheeks with the back of my wrist. "No. If you go after them, they'll hurt him to get back at me. Please. I just need another week. I can get more hours."
"No," he said. "You will not go back to that diner and burn your hands off for men who threaten kids. Give me the phone."
I clutched the dark case tighter. My first instinct was to say no, to protect whatever small control I had left. But the hallway was still behind us, and his door was still open, and his eyes hadn't left mine once. He wasn't asking the way a boss asks. He was telling me the way someone does when they've already decided you're theirs to protect.
My hand trembled as I held it out. He took it gently, careful not to brush the raw knuckles, and turned the screen toward him. The call log glowed. One unknown number, three minutes long.
He memorized it. Then he set the phone down on the island between us, screen up.
"I will find out who they are," he said. "You will not pay them another dollar without me seeing the terms. Understood?"
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say it was my brother, my mistake, my debt. But the shame was so heavy and the hour was already ticking and I was so tired of scrubbing pans at midnight.
I nodded, just once.
May you like
He didn't look satisfied, but he accepted it. "Stay here tonight. Do not leave this house. I will handle the hour."
And I stayed seated on that stool, hands hidden in my lap, while he picked up his own phone from the counter and walked to the far end of the kitchen to make a call I wasn't supposed to hear.
