Chapter 13 - The Night the Locks Were Changed
The new lock clicked differently. Not louder, just cleaner. A short, solid sound when I turned the deadbolt on the garage apartment that I hadn't heard before. The old one had stuck halfway if you didn't jiggle it.
Rosa had stood in the doorway while the locksmith worked that afternoon, her arms crossed, watching him test the key twice. He handed me two keys on a plain silver ring.
"One for you, one stays in the office safe," he said. "Nobody else."
I slipped one into the front pocket of my jeans and held the other tight in my palm until it left a mark. When he left, Rosa didn't come inside. She just nodded toward the door.
"Try it," she said.
I locked it and unlocked it again from the inside. My hand was shaking a little and I couldn't tell if it was from habit or from the fact that I was allowed to.
That was around four. By eight the apartment was dark except for the lamp over the small stove and the light I'd left on in the bathroom. I hadn't unpacked anything. My bag was still by the bed the way Victor had told me to keep it, ready to be moved if they needed the space for guests. I told myself I was too tired to deal with it.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter at 8:47. Unknown number. No name, just a string of digits with our area code.
*Hi, it's Victor. Can we talk for a minute? I have your deposit from March. Want to return it properly. No drama.*
I read it twice. My thumb hovered over the screen. The old response was already forming in my head, the quick sorry, the okay I'll come down, the way I used to answer within a minute so he wouldn't get angry.
I didn't answer. I picked up the phone and walked the six steps to Rosa's door at the other end of the breezeway. She opened it in socks, her hair pulled back, a mug in her hand.
"Unknown number," I said, and held it out.
She read it without touching my phone, her mouth tightening.
"Don't reply," she said quietly. "Not even to say no."
"I know. The advocate said—"
"Forward it to her. Right now. Then screenshot it."
My hands felt clumsy. I forwarded the text to the number the advocate had given me at the sheriff's annex, then took a screenshot the way she'd showed me. Sent that too. Rosa watched me do it and then let out a breath.
"Good. That's exactly what she told you to do."
"He said deposit," I said. "He never gave me a receipt for that. He said it was for the apartment."
"It wasn't," Rosa said. "There is no deposit for staff housing. He made that up." She didn't touch me, she just stood close enough that I could feel she wasn't going anywhere. "You did it right. If he texts again, you do the same thing. You don't owe him a conversation."
Back in my apartment I put my phone face-down on the counter and sat at the small table and just listened to the quiet. The mansion was dark across the courtyard, the big chandelier in the lobby off, just the low lights along the driveway. For a year I'd kept my phone on loud at night in case Victor texted that I needed to come clean something or let someone in. I turned the ringer off. My finger hesitated over the switch, then I did it.
Around nine-thirty Rosa knocked once, light.
"Hey," she said through the door. "Can I tell him you're okay? He asked me to check."
I opened the door a few inches. She meant Mr. Caldwell.
"He didn't text me," I said.
"He won't," she said. "He said he wouldn't contact you directly while the no-contact is in place. He asked me to ask if you need anything. That's all."
That little difference mattered. He wasn't standing outside. He wasn't calling. He was asking Rosa to ask.
"I'm okay," I said. "Tell him the lock works."
She smiled a little. "I will. My door's open if you need anything. Leave yours locked."
After she left I made tea I didn't drink and noticed the silver bucket by the door. I'd carried it up from the lobby out of habit that morning after the sheriff's deputies left, rinsed it, and set it by the door where I always kept it. Ready for when someone called me down to scrub again.
I stared at it. It was clean and empty and catching the light from the stove. For a second I felt the pull to kneel beside it, to check the floor for spots that weren't there.
Instead I filled it halfway at the bathroom sink. The water was warm. I found the old mop in the closet, the one with the wooden handle, and I mopped my own floor standing up. Just the little kitchen and the patch by the bed. Slow even strokes, the way you're supposed to do it, not on your hands and knees.
May you like
The water sloshed softly. My shoulders ached from holding them tight all day, but my knees didn't hurt. I wrung the mop out and did the corner again because I wanted to, not because someone was standing over me saying it was still not clean.
When I was done I emptied the bucket in the tub and left it by the sink, not by the door. I turned the deadbolt over for the night. That clean click again. I left the phone face-down and got into bed with the bathroom light still on, because I wanted it on. I listened to the wind in the trees beyond the garage and the faint hum of the gate, and for the first time since I moved in, I didn't wait for footsteps on the stairs.
