Chapter 3
The bathroom door clicked shut behind me and the sound was louder than it should have been. White tile, white walls, white towels folded in perfect thirds on the heated rack. The same bright daylight from the hallway cut straight through the frosted window and left no shadows to hide in. I stood at the sink with both hands gripping the porcelain and watched my own breathing fog the mirror for a half second before it cleared.
My dress had ridden up on one side. The light blue fabric was creased where I'd been sitting on the floor, and the white collar had folded under itself. I smoothed it out with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. It didn't help. The collar stayed bent, a hard line pressed into the cotton, like it remembered the weight of being pushed.
I lifted my left hand to my forehead. The bruise ran just under my hairline, reddish and raised, warm when I touched it. It wasn't bleeding, which somehow made it worse. If it had been bleeding I could have cleaned it, bandaged it, done something. Instead it was just there, a color that didn't belong on me. I pressed my palm flat against it the way I'd done on the floor, and the pressure sent a dull ache behind my eyes. In the mirror my own eyes watered and I couldn't tell if I was about to cry or if it was just the pain.
My phone was in the pocket of the dress. The pocket Evelyn had insisted on because "a girl on staff should always be reachable." I pulled it out. The screen was smudged. 3:17 p.m. No new messages. I opened the camera, switched it to front-facing, and held it up.
The first photo was blurry. My hand moved. The second caught the bruise straight on, the white collar stark against my neck, the wood floor from the hallway visible in the reflection behind me. I took a third, closer, and a fourth with my hand pulled back so the mark was uncovered. I checked each one, zoomed in. The reddish edge was clear. I didn't look like myself. I slid the phone to lock and shoved it back in my pocket like someone might come take it.
Daniel was right outside the door. I hadn't asked him to stay, but I could see his shadow under the crack, his gray suit jacket blocking part of the light.
"You okay in there?" he said. His voice was low, not trying to carry down the hall.
I didn't answer at first. I turned the faucet on and let cold water run over my hands. It steadied me enough to speak.
"I'm fine," I said. It was a lie and I knew he knew it.
"I'll stay out here," he said. "Take whatever time you need."
I opened the door a few inches. He was leaning against the wall opposite, hands in his pockets, back still mostly to me. Up close I could see the ink on the back of his neck properly for the first time, just above the white collar of his shirt. Dark, interlocking lines, not words, not something you'd get on a whim in a strip mall. He caught me looking and shifted his shoulders self-consciously.
"They're old," he said. "From before I came back here. She hated them. Still does."
That explained something about why he didn't look like he belonged in the chandelier light. The gray suit fit him, but the tattoos said he'd tried to live somewhere else.
"Why'd you come back then?" I asked.
He let out a short breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "She needed someone who could be around for the foundation events. Someone presentable. I owed her money after I left school. It was supposed to be temporary."
He glanced down the hallway toward where his mother had gone. He lowered his voice even more.
"She's done this before," he said. "Not exactly this. But she gets loud when she thinks someone's making the house look bad. My dad learned to just leave the room. I learned to step in late."
I held the edge of the door. My knuckles were white around it. The admission hung there, not an apology, not an excuse, just a fact he was finally saying out loud.
From down the hall Evelyn's voice cut through, clear and controlled again, as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened. "Daniel? Claire? We have the Hendersons coming at five and the caterer needs the dining room. Claire, honey, you should get yourself cleaned up, okay? It wasn't that serious, you slipped. We don't need to make a scene."
The word slipped landed like a door closing. I pressed my forehead again without thinking, felt that warm bruise under my palm, and my phone knocked against my leg in my pocket. Evidence, weighty and small.
Evelyn kept talking, closer now, her heels light on the wood floor. "I'll tell them you're not feeling well and went to rest. That's best for everyone. We keep things private."
May you like
I looked at Daniel. He didn't argue with her. He just looked at me and gave a slight shake of his head, a warning not to answer her directly. Then he said loud enough for her to hear, "Give her a minute, Mom."
I stepped back into the bathroom, closed the door again, and took one more photo, this time of the collar itself, the bent white edge. It was a stupid detail to document, but it was the only thing I could fix and couldn't. I made sure the time stamp was on, locked the phone, and zipped the pocket shut. Whatever story Evelyn was going to tell at five o'clock, my version would still be in my pocket when it was over.
