Chapter 8 - The Chandelier Light That Stayed On
I was on my knees again after nine, but it was different this time. The chandelier was still on full, every recessed spot lit up the lobby like it was midday, and the silver bucket beside me caught all of it. The checkered marble never really got clean no matter how many times I wrung the rag. I'd been at it for twenty minutes, breathing in the chemical smell from the polish, trying to keep my hands steady.
I'd told myself the light was for the donor tour Mr. Reyes had mentioned. Work in pairs, he'd said that afternoon. Keep the lobby lit until midnight. I'd repeated it to myself like a rule I could hold onto. My neck still ached under the collar of my dress. My hair was coming loose from the bun but I didn't fix it.
I heard Victor's shoes before I saw him. He came from the east wing hallway, not the staff corridor, his shirt sleeves pushed up, a clipboard under his arm like he had a reason to be there.
"You're still down here," he said. He didn't sound angry. He sounded tired, almost concerned. That was new since yesterday. "I told you I'd do your review after dinner. You're doing it wrong again. Come on, let's step into my office where it's quiet. We don't need all this light on."
He gestured toward the dark hall behind him. The east wing offices were always locked and empty at night. No cameras, I knew. He'd told me once the system didn't cover there because of the old wiring.
I kept my hand on the bucket handle. My heart started up but I kept my voice low.
"Mr. Reyes asked me to keep the lobby lit," I said. "He said staff works in pairs after eight now. For the tour in the morning. He wants the lobby ready."
Victor's smile tightened. He glanced up at the chandelier, then back at me.
"He's not here, honey," he said, quieter. "He left for the city after dinner. I'm still house manager. You know how this works. Ten minutes in my office and I'll sign off on your hours. You're making this harder than it needs to be."
He took half a step closer and I could smell his cologne. He reached like he was going to help me up, hand hovering near my elbow.
"Victor, I need to stay where I'm supposed to," I said. My voice shook on the last word. I didn't move.
He leaned down a little, dropping his voice. "Don't embarrass yourself. You think he cares if the floor shines? He'll be gone tomorrow and you'll still need this job and the apartment. Come on."
Before I could answer, a sound came from above. A door closing softly on the second floor.
Victor straightened up fast.
Mr. Reyes was standing at the top of the curved staircase. No guards, no suit jacket, just his black shirt with the collar open, his hands in his pockets. The light hit the tattoos on his forearms. He looked calm, like he'd been there a minute.
"Victor," he said. Even from up there his voice carried. "You still here?"
Victor recovered, clipboard up a little like a shield. "Just doing the night check, sir. I was telling her we should wrap the lobby in the morning. No need to burn the lights."
Mr. Reyes started down the stairs, slow, one hand trailing the wrought-iron railing.
"I need it tonight," he said. "I moved the donor tour to seven a.m. They want to see the lobby first. She stays and finishes. Leave the chandelier and the recessed lights on. I told all staff - no solo reviews after hours. You got that memo, right?"
There was a pause. Victor's jaw worked. He looked at me, then back up at Mr. Reyes, who had stopped three steps above the floor. He wasn't blocking Victor, wasn't raising his voice. He just stood there.
"Of course," Victor said after a second. He tried a laugh. "Just trying to save power. I'll be in the office if you need me."
"We're good," Mr. Reyes said. He didn't move until Victor turned and walked back toward the east hall. I watched his shoes on the checkered tiles until they disappeared and the hallway went dark again. My hands were still on the floor. I realized I'd been holding my breath.
Mr. Reyes didn't come all the way down. He looked at me and gave a small nod.
"Keep the lights on," he said quietly. "Rosa's coming down in ten to help you. Take your time."
He went back up the stairs the way he'd come. I heard his door close, but this time the lobby stayed bright.
Rosa came down eight minutes later with a second bucket, just like he'd said. We didn't talk much. We finished the floor together, her humming under her breath, and when we were done she squeezed my arm and said she'd leave her phone in the laundry bathroom like we planned.
After she went up, I went to that bathroom and locked the door. The mirror there was old and spotted, but the light was harsh and white. I pulled my collar down carefully. The bruises on the side of my neck and up toward my ear were darker now, purple and yellow at the edges, finger-shaped. I hadn't really looked since that morning.
My hands were shaking so bad I had to brace my elbow against the sink. I opened Rosa's phone - she'd left it on the shelf with the passcode on a scrap of paper - and opened the camera. I took three photos, angling my head so the marks were clear, the white collar of the dress visible for scale. I made sure the time stamp was on. Then I opened our text thread and sent them to myself, and to her, with today's date typed underneath.
May you like
I stared at them for a second. Seeing them on a screen made them real in a way feeling them hadn't. I wasn't making it up. I wasn't forgetting it wrong.
I deleted the photos from the camera roll on Rosa's phone after they sent, wiped the sink, and tucked the phone back where she'd find it. When I came out, the lobby was still lit, empty and glossy and way too bright for that time of night, and for the first time that week I didn't feel alone in it.
