Chapter 7
She didn't slam a door. She walked.
The blonde woman turned on one heel, the champagne satin catching the warm light as she moved, and her earrings swung once before she steadied herself. I watched her go past the framed painting on the cream wall, past the curve of the black wrought-iron railing. Her hand stayed light at her waist, like she was holding something in place.
She didn't look back at us. Her steps were even on the runner, not fast, not slow, just deliberate enough to make it clear she'd chosen to leave. The hallway was long enough that I could hear the faint tap of her shoes for several seconds after she turned the corner toward the far wing. She was out of earshot. Not out of the house.
The air changed when she was gone. It wasn't relief, not yet. It was the after-pressure you feel when a door has shut but the draft is still moving.
He didn't move right away. He stayed where he'd been standing, directly beside me, close enough that his shoulder was almost level with mine. His arms were still at his sides. I could see his left wrist, the watch flat against his skin, the white pocket square sharp in his jacket.
For a second neither of us spoke. I kept my hands clasped in front of me. I tried to breathe normally and I couldn't. My chest was tight and the breath came shallow, so I forced a slower inhale through my nose and let it out quietly. The marks on my left forearm were exposed. I hadn't tried to hide them, but I wasn't looking at them either.
"Hey," he said. His voice was low, much lower than it had been when he'd spoken to her. It wasn't the tone he'd used for the order about the cabinet. It was softer, and it was meant just for me. "Are you okay?"
I took a pause before I answered. It wasn't for effect. I needed the second to get my voice steady.
"I'm okay," I said. It came out quiet and even. I nodded once, small.
He didn't step back, but he tilted his head slightly down toward me, the way he had in that last tight shot when we were shoulder to shoulder. His gaze dropped for a half second to my arm, then came back to my face. He didn't reach for me. He kept his hands where they were.
"Did she use it today?" he asked.
The question was flat and careful. No accusation in it. Just the fact of it.
I breathed again. I felt the strap's weight even though it wasn't there anymore, just the memory of it. The lock cabinet was three doors down, behind the linen closet, and his key was still in his pocket. I knew the rule now. He'd said it out loud. Put the strap back in the lock cabinet.
"No, sir," I said. "Not today."
He exhaled. I saw the subtle movement in his shoulders.
"Those marks," he said, quieter still. "Are they from before?"
I looked down then. The faint reddish lines along the inside of my left forearm were darker near the crease of my elbow. They weren't fresh. That was the point I needed him to understand without me making a scene about it.
"Yes, sir," I said. I paused again, just a breath. "From before."
He nodded, like he was filing that away exactly as I'd said it. He didn't ask me to explain more. He didn't press for the story behind it. I was grateful for that, because I wasn't ready to tell it standing in that hallway with the painting and the railing and the sound of her still somewhere in the house.
"Listen to me," he said. His eyes stayed on mine. "She doesn't come near you again without me in the room. She doesn't touch the cabinet. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You did the right thing with the glass," he added. "The rim was dirty. You were right to take it."
That was the first time someone had said that out loud since it happened. I felt my throat get tight, but I held my expression. Restrained. Neutral. The way I'd kept it the whole time she'd been standing there.
"Thank you," I said.
We stood there another few seconds. The hallway was quiet except for the soft hum of the air system and a distant murmur from whatever gathering was happening downstairs around his mother's wine. I could still feel where the glass had been in my hand, the cold lip of it, the smudge I'd seen on the rim under the light.
He finally took half a step back, just enough to give me space, but not so far that the proximity broke.
"I'm going to walk you to the service pantry," he said. "Stay there until I come get you. Don't answer if she calls for you. If anyone asks, you were with me."
May you like
I nodded.
He didn't touch my arm to guide me. He just turned slightly and waited for me to fall in beside him, his suit jacket straight, his tie still perfect. Behind us, the hallway stayed empty, the iron scrollwork of the railing catching the light. She was still in the residence, somewhere past the painting, and we both knew that. But for that interval, in that stretch of hallway, it was just the two of us, and the cabinet was locked, and she couldn't hear us.
