Chapter 3 - Quiet Hallway Out
I didn't stand up right away. My legs were shaking too hard and the white sheet had twisted around my ankles, and for a second all I could hear was the low hum of the air vent and my own breathing. Mr. Russo was already on his feet beside the bed. He didn't touch me. He just stood there in that unbuttoned dark gray shirt, his watch catching the blue light from the window, and looked toward the bedroom door like he was listening for something out there.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
I nodded before I was sure. The glass of water was still in my hands, half empty. My fingers were cold around it.
"Set it down," he said, quieter. He tipped his head toward the nightstand. "You don't carry that out."
I set the clear short glass down too fast and water sloshed over the rim onto my thumb. I wiped it on my pants without thinking. My black pants. They were damp at the knee and wrinkled, and one pant leg had ridden up over my calf. My shoes were gone. I stared at my bare feet against the dark frame at the base of the bed and felt heat climb up my neck.
"My shoes," I whispered.
"By the door," he said. "You kicked one off in the hall."
That stopped me. I tried to picture it and couldn't. I remembered the cart squeaking, the hallway too warm, my stomach turning over. I didn't remember kicking off anything.
He moved first, not toward me but toward the door. He didn't open it. He rested his hand flat against it and listened again. From somewhere down the hall came a soft thump, pipes or an elevator, and then nothing.
"When you go out, you go left," he said. "Not right toward the main stairs. Left to the service hallway. The staff camera by the linen closet points at the elevator. Stay close to the wall and it won't catch your face."
I stared at him. "You want me to sneak—"
"I want you to get to your cart without half the night staff writing a story about you," he said. His voice stayed level. "Take the service hall. That's an order."
My throat tightened. I pushed my hair back with both hands. It had come half loose from where I'd pulled it back, strands sticking to my damp forehead. I tried to smooth it, twist it up again the way Marta had shown me for inspections, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"Fix it out there," he said. "Go."
He opened the door only a few inches and checked. The light from the hallway cut a thin line across the white sheets. Cool air came in. He held the door and nodded once, and I understood I was supposed to move now before I was ready.
I slid off the edge of the large bed and my bare feet hit the cold wood floor. The shock of it went straight up my legs and cleared my head for a second. I bent for my shoes by the door — one black work shoe tipped on its side, the other upright — and shoved my feet into them without untying them. My gray uniform shirt with the black trim had pulled half out of my pants in the back. I tucked it in fast, fingers fumbling at the hem.
The hallway was empty. Long and dim, with that same warm low glow along the baseboards and blue spilling from a far window. To the right, toward the main stairs, I could hear a TV murmuring behind another door. To the left, the service hallway was darker, narrower, the carpet giving way to tile.
I went left.
My steps sounded too loud. I tried to walk on the balls of my feet like he said, close to the wall, but my shoes squeaked on the tile. Halfway down, I stopped and pressed my back against the wall under a small exit sign and fixed my hair properly, winding the elastic twice more, pinching my cheeks because they felt bloodless now instead of flushed. My uniform still smelled faintly of sweat and cleaning spray.
Then I saw it.
My housekeeping cart sat exactly where I had left it, tucked into the alcove by the ice machine. The gray bag half full, spray bottles lined up, folded towels stacked, my time sheet clipped to the side. The sight of it hit me harder than waking up in his bed. That was my work. That was proof I had been doing my job when I got sick.
I grabbed the handle with both hands and just stood there holding it. The metal was cool and solid. My cart. My shift. For a moment I wanted to push it straight to the service elevator, ride down, clock out early and run to the bus stop barefoot if I had to. No one would stop a maid leaving sick. I could call out. I could disappear before anyone saw my face.
But if I ran now, the timecard would show a gap. And Marta had warned me last week that supervision was checking missing punches. If I left the cart here, someone else would have to deal with it. Someone would ask why Chloe's cart was abandoned outside Mr. Russo's suite at night.
I pulled the time sheet toward me. My clock-in was stamped 10:14 p.m. My handwriting for the room checks was still there. I took the pen from the cup on the cart, and my hand shook as I wrote the next line: 12:40 — hall restock. It wasn't exactly true and it wasn't exactly a lie. I was here. I was working.
May you like
I straightened the towels though they didn't need it, checked the spray nozzles, pushed the cart out of the alcove until its wheels were lined up straight toward the service hallway. Normal. I had to look normal.
Behind me, I heard a door click shut — his door, soft and final. I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes on the cart and kept breathing, in through my nose the way I'd learned when the dizziness came, and tightened my grip on the handle until my knuckles went white.
