Chapter 8
He came back after midnight. I heard the front door click and stayed in the hallway where he'd told me to stay, my phone face-down on the side table, the cream walls still holding the same warm light from hours earlier.
He didn't look at me right away. He closed the door slow, turned the deadbolt, and set his keys in the ceramic dish by the entrance. His black satin shirt was untucked on one side and there was a dark smear on his left cuff I hadn't seen before.
"It's done," he said. His voice was low, even. "Your brother's safe. They'll wait."
I stood up. My throat was dry from not talking. "Wait how long?"
"Twenty-four hours. They won't go near him before then. I made that clear."
He said it like he'd settled a bill. Like the crew had just needed a firm reminder. He walked past me toward the kitchen and I followed because I didn't know where else to stand.
In the kitchen he turned on the faucet and washed his hands. He kept his head down. Water ran over his knuckles and he hissed through his teeth, just once, and I saw it — the skin over his right hand split open at the edge of his tattoos, fresh blood welling and washing pink down the drain. His jaw was tight. A muscle jumped near his ear.
"You said you'd talk," I said.
"I did."
"Did they agree that easy?" I asked. "Just like that?"
He shut off the water and grabbed a dish towel, pressing it to his hand. He didn't answer for a second too long.
"They understood," he said. "That's what matters."
He wouldn't look at me while he said it. He kept his eyes on the towel, on the sink, anywhere but my face. In the hallway that night he'd looked at me like he was listening to every word the man on the phone said. Now he wouldn't meet my eyes at all.
"Let me see your hand," I said.
"It's nothing."
He moved to the pantry and took out the first-aid kit he kept behind the cereal boxes, the one I'd used for my own knuckles last week. I watched him try to open it one-handed, his fingers stiff, the towel already spotting through.
"You told me to stay in the mansion and you'd handle it," I said. "So handle it honestly."
He finally glanced up. "Sadia, you need to sleep. We'll sort the rest tomorrow."
That was the evasion. That was the lie that wasn't quite a lie. He'd told me the brother part, the wait part, and left out everything in between.
He left the kitchen with the kit and went into his office, leaving the door half open. I heard him sit, heard the drawer open. I stood in the hallway listening to him breathe, to the soft rustle of him wrapping his hand. After a minute his phone buzzed on the counter and he picked it up, his voice dropping so low I only caught one word. "Tomorrow."
I didn't go to him. I went to the laundry room first, like I was supposed to, like I was still just the maid. My uniform was hanging on the hook where I'd left it after changing into sweats. The apron pocket still had the folded paper I'd shoved there two days ago when the second notice came — the one I'd hidden from him because the first page already felt like too much to admit.
I'd told him part of the truth in Chapter 3. Medical bills for my brother, late payments that turned into a loan after the clinic said they wouldn't schedule his follow-up without a deposit. I hadn't told him the number at the bottom.
Now I pulled that paper out and unfolded it on the washer. The header was a company name that didn't sound like a company, just letters — K.R. Holdings — and under it a balance typed in bold: $27,430.00. Due immediately. Fees compounding daily. The phone number at the bottom matched the number still in my call history from the hallway. The name he'd written on a sticky note after he traced it was the same.
Twenty-seven thousand. He'd told me a few thousand. He'd said we'd figure it out, that it was manageable.
I carried the paper to his office and stood in the doorway. He was at his desk, his injured hand wrapped in gauze, his other hand on his forehead. The brass hinge on the door behind me caught the light, same hallway, same warm shadows.
"You said a few thousand," I said, and held the paper out.
He looked at it, then at me. He didn't pretend he didn't know what it was.
"Where did you find that?" he asked.
"In my pocket. Where it's been since before you asked me what I owed. You traced the number. You knew the amount. Why did you tell me it was smaller?"
He leaned back, his eyes finally holding mine. For the first time that night his stern expression slipped into something else — not softer, just more tired.
"Because you would have run," he said. "If I told you twenty-seven thousand tonight, you would have tried to fix it yourself before sunrise."
I felt heat climb up my neck. "So you decided to just not tell me? To tell me my brother's safe and leave it there?"
"I told you what you needed to hear to stay safe for one night," he said. "The crew isn't walking away. They backed off the boy because I gave them a promise. But the number is the number. They'll be back."
"And your hand?" I pointed with the paper. "Was that part of them 'understanding'?"
He flexed his wrapped hand and winced. "That was me making sure they understood."
The hallway outside his office was quiet. No doors opening this time, no phone pressed to my ear. Just us and the debt on the paper between us, and the twenty-four hours ticking louder than either of us wanted to admit.
"You don't get to edit the truth for me," I said. My voice shook, but I didn't look away. "If my brother's safety depends on that number, I need the real number."
He nodded once, slow. "Now you have it."
I folded the paper back up, crease by crease, my abraded knuckles catching on the edge. I wasn't going to hand it to him. I slipped it back into my pocket.
May you like
"Good," I said. "Then I'll decide what to do with it."
His mouth tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew that tone from me now. I turned before he could tell me again to sleep, and went back to the kitchen where my phone was still face-down, the crew's number still waiting in the call log if I was desperate enough to use it.
