Chương 2
For several seconds I did nothing.
The pistol stayed beneath my hand while I listened to her breathing and tried to understand how a woman who had spent weeks refusing to make me coffee had somehow climbed into my bed.
Her cheek was pressed against the edge of my pillow.
A damp strand of hair stuck to her temple.
There was a red mark on her wrist where the cuff of her uniform had twisted during sleep.
“Emma.”
Nothing.
“Emma.”
She made a small sound and turned toward me.
Her forehead touched my shoulder.
I went rigid.
“Emma.”
Her eyes opened.
For one blank second, she looked at me with the dazed confusion of someone waking in a place her mind had not yet identified.
Then she saw my face.
She sat up so quickly her elbow struck my ribs.
“Oh my God.”
“What are you doing in my bed?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I mean, I know I was sitting there.”
She pointed toward the upholstered chair near the window.
“I was changing the sheets and you were asleep and then I sat down because I got dizzy.”
“And your plan after that was what, migrate?”
“I guess I lay down for a second.”
“In my bed.”
“You weren’t using this side.”
I stared at her.
She rubbed both hands over her face.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re wearing shoes.”
“I’m aware of the shoes.”
“On sheets that cost more than your car.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
She looked down at herself, then at me, and an embarrassed laugh escaped her.
It irritated me that I nearly laughed too.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and stood.
The room shifted under her before she reached full height.
Her hand caught the nightstand.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost passed out.”
“I stood up too fast.”
“You fell asleep on a man you work for.”
“That does sound bad when you say it like that.”
“There is no good way to say it.”
She bent to straighten the comforter.
Her fingers shook.
“Stop.”
“I’m fixing it.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand.”
“Emma.”
She froze.
Something in my voice must have changed because she looked at me without the usual stubbornness.
Her face had gone pale beneath the freckles across her nose.
“When did you last eat?”
She sighed.
“Not this again.”
“When?”
“At the diner.”
“That could mean nine hours ago.”
“It could also mean less.”
“Was it?”
She didn’t answer.
I reached for the phone on the nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Peter.”
“No.”
I pressed the kitchen line.
She grabbed the receiver from my hand and hung it up.
The movement surprised both of us.
Nobody took things out of my hand.
Not even Luke.
Emma stared at the phone, then slowly set it back.
“I can get my own food.”
“You haven’t.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It actually is.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I drink too much coffee.”
“You work fifteen-hour days.”
“Congratulations on remembering.”
“And you nearly collapsed.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
Her expression hardened.
“So?”
The word came out sharper than anything she had said to me before.
I watched her shoulders rise and fall.
“You want to know why I’m tired?”
She stepped back from the bed.
“Fine.”
“My mother’s facility raised the monthly rate again.”
I said nothing.
“The diner cut one of my breakfast shifts because the manager’s nephew needed hours.”
Her mouth twisted.
“And the collection company for my mom’s old hospital bill has apparently decided calling at seven in the morning is good customer service.”
I kept my eyes on her face.
She laughed once without humor.
“So yes, I’m tired.”
She reached for the cleaning rag she had dropped near the chair.
“But tired people still have rent.”
“You should have told Mrs. Alvarez you needed fewer hours.”
“That sentence only works for people who can afford fewer hours.”
“I can change your schedule.”
Her head snapped toward me.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
“And I didn’t ask you to fix me.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“I’m talking about work.”
“You’re talking about control.”
“I own the house.”
“Yes, Danny, I know.”
She shoved the rag into the pocket of her apron.
“You own the house, you own the company that pays the house, and judging by the security outside, you probably own things I don’t want explained.”
“You don’t know anything about my business.”
“I’m trying very hard to keep it that way.”
“Then don’t tell me what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing what rich men do when something makes them uncomfortable.”
“And what is that?”
“Trying to buy the discomfort away.”
Silence settled between us.
I had been insulted by men holding guns and threatened by men who later disappeared.
Nothing in those memories prepared me for the peculiar humiliation of being accurately criticized by a sleep-deprived maid wearing one untied sneaker.
“You’re fired,” I said.
Her face emptied.
The sentence hung there between us, ugly and immediate.
For a moment I almost took it back.
Then pride stepped in where judgment should have been.
Emma nodded.
“Okay.”
She untied the apron from her waist.
I told myself that was what I wanted.
She folded it once, placed it on the chair, and walked toward the door.
“Mrs. Alvarez will have your final check.”
Emma stopped with her hand on the knob.
“Great.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
She turned.
“What would you like me to say?”
I had no answer that didn’t sound ridiculous.
Her eyes moved over my face with something close to disappointment.
That was worse than fear.
“You know,” she said quietly, “everyone here acts like you’re dangerous because you yell and throw things.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
“You should leave.”
“I am.”
“But I don’t think that’s why they’re scared of you.”
May you like
She opened the door.
“I think they’re scared because you punish people every time they make you feel something you don’t want to feel.”
