by Callie Rose
I’m not really done when I pull away—I could stare at those designs for hours—but I feel some kind of tension building in the air around us, and I’m not sure I’m ready to find out what happens when it breaks.
“Those are… extremely cool,” I admit as they turn around, matching grins of satisfaction on their faces. “And very badass.”
“Told you.” Dax laughs, grabbing his shirt from where he draped it over the scaffolding and slipping it on.
The lunch period ends ten minutes later, and the three of us crawl out from under the metal seating banks and trek back toward the school.
I feel better.
The break helped. The weed helped.
Dax and Chase helped.
Still, as we slip back inside through a side door in the building, the worry that has taken up permanent residence inside my chest starts to expand again like a creeping poison.
I might feel a little better, but nothing is better.
And it won’t be until my mom is out from behind bars.
8
I visit my mom on Saturday morning, and Lincoln insists on driving me. It cuts the travel time down by about half, which leaves more time for studying and trying to hunt down a murderer, so I don’t put up much of a fight.
He reaches across the center console as we drive, gripping my hand in his and squeezing tightly. He’s snuck into my room a few nights over the past week, and I’ve found that I sleep better with him next to me. It doesn’t keep the nightmares away, but the terror fades more quickly when I wake up in his arms.
Mom’s mood has been swinging from upbeat to worried all week, but today is a good day. I feed her optimism, stoking it like I would a small, flickering fire, doing everything I can to keep it alive. Even if it’s feeding on nothing, even if its fuel is something as ephemeral as blind hope, I can’t let it die.
For both our sakes.
I press my hand to the glass before I leave, lining my fingers up with hers in what’s become a familiar gesture.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, Low. Be good, okay?”
“Always.”
My stomach is in knots by the time I leave, just like it usually is. It’s impossible for me to step foot in this fucking place without fantasizing about picking up my chair, smashing the glass of the window that divides us—even though I doubt it would actually break—and grabbing my mom by the hand, pulling her to freedom.
We wouldn’t make it ten feet past the front doors, much less to the border or whatever the fuck, but I can’t stop myself from imagining it every single time.
I just want to do something.
We’re quiet on the way back, and when Linc pulls into the motor court and parks in one of the garages along the west wing of the house, he turns to look at me after pulling the key from the ignition.
His amber eyes churn with a mix of emotions, but he doesn’t say anything. He just hooks the back of my neck and draws me toward him, meeting me in the middle for a soft kiss.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
It’s a lie, and he knows it—I can see it in his face. But it’s close enough to the truth for him to let it slide. I’m as okay as I can be right now.
We slip out of his car and head toward the side entrance to the house. The entryway is quiet when we walk in, but as we’re heading for the west wing stairs, footsteps sound on the polished floor behind us.
“Ah, Harlow! Linc. I was just looking for you.” Mr. Black smiles broadly at us.
“Yeah? What do you need?” Lincoln asks.
“Oh! Well.” His dad chuckles. “Actually, I was looking for Harlow.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
I glance over at Linc to find that his expression has frozen. He’s watching his dad with something almost like distrust in his eyes, and for a second, nerves twist in my stomach.
When my mom was here, she was always the one to talk with Mr. Black about the details of the household management. I was just her assistant. So I’m not quite sure what he wants with me.
And I shouldn’t be all that surprised by the look on Lincoln’s face. The whole reason he hated me so much when I first got here was because his dad has a history of sleeping with the help, and he thought my mom and I would try to seduce Mr. Black or something.
Ugh. No thanks.
“Hey. Thank you for the ride.”
I rest my hand on Lincoln’s arm, squeezing gently, trying to reassure him through my touch. I have to hope that by now he knows I wouldn’t do anything with his fucking father—which makes me wonder if it’s me or his dad he doesn’t trust.
Lincoln turns his amber gaze toward me, then shocks the fuck out of me by leaning down and pressing a kiss to my lips.
I practically jump in surprise. I mean, I know his dad is aware something’s going on between us—in fact, he was the one who used the word girlfriend—but we’ve always played things cool in the house. Linc sneaks into my bedroom at night, and he’s given me several of the best orgasms of my life, but outside of that little bubble we’ve created for ourselves, we don’t even hold hands under this roof.
My heart takes off at a gallop, and I grab Lincoln’s arm to steady myself as the kiss lingers a half second longer. Then he pulls away, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“No problem, Low. Anytime. You know that.”
He glances once more at his dad, then heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Mr. Black watches him go, a somewhat bemused expression crossing his face. He raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head, as if banishing some private thought. When he shifts his gaze back to me, his beaming smile is back in place.
“Well. Shall we?”
“Yeah, sure,” I repeat, then follow him as he leads me through the massive house to his study.
I watch his back as we walk, trying to anticipate what on earth he could have to say to me. Is he going to kick me out? Have I worn out my welcome already?
Or maybe this is about me and Linc. If he’s figured out we’re sort of dating, maybe he’s more upset about it than he let on before. I am the maid’s daughter, after all. I’m sure there are a lot of fathers in his social circle who wouldn’t approve of their son dating the help. Maybe Samuel Black is one of them… as hypocritical as that would make him, given his history.
My spine stiffens and my muscles tense up as I consider all the possibilities. None of them are good, and by the time we reach his office and he ushers me inside, my shoulders are somewhere around my ears.
He shuts the door behind him and gestures to the couch that takes up the central spot in the room.
“Have a seat, please. Would you like a—” He breaks off with a chuckle. “I was about to offer you a drink. I forgot who I was meeting with. Although I can offer you a seltzer, if you’d like?”
“No. Thanks.” I perch on the edge of the couch, my spine straight and stiff as a metal rod.
“Of course. You don’t mind if I…” He trails off, tilting his head toward the shelves where his glasses and half-full bottles of expensive booze sit.
“No, that’s fine.”
He smiles and nods, walking over to pour himself a drink. I sit in silence as I wait for him, and the seconds seem to tick by at an interminably slow pace. When he finally comes back, he sits on the couch a few feet away from me, leaning back and crossing one ankle over the opposite knee.
“So. You and Lincoln really seem to have hit it off.”
My skin feels like it flushes hot and cold at the same time.
Goddammit. That is what this is about.
Is he going to try to buy me off or something? Offer me some exorbitant payoff to leave his son alone? Then again, why would he do that when he can just kick me out of his house and be rid of me that way?
“We—I—”
I don’t honestly know how to answer what wasn’t really a question.
“I think it�
�s great,” Mr. Black says firmly.
The streaks of gray at his temples glint in the warm light as he inclines his head. He looks a lot like Lincoln, with the same almost-black hair and similar features, although his eyes are a more basic light brown instead of the almost preternatural amber of Lincoln’s.
I blink. “You do?”
“Of course.” He smiles again. “You’re a lovely girl, Harlow. And you’re smart and strong-willed. I think you’re a good influence on him.”
Um, what? Really?
First of all, if he knew half the insane shit Lincoln and I have gotten into, he’d eat his words so fast he’d get indigestion—not that any of that was my fault.
Second of all, does he really not care that I’m the maid’s daughter? That I’m so much lower on the social strata than his son? Not to mention the fact that my mom’s currently in prison on a felony charge.
Mr. Black is still looking at me with a pleasant expression on his face, obviously waiting for some kind of response from me, so I clear my throat and say, “Well… uh, thank you.”
“Of course.” He takes a sip of his drink and then makes a tsking noise and draws in a deep breath. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about. That’s really between you and Lincoln.”
“What is it then?”
He leans forward a little, his brow creasing as a concerned expression crosses his face. “Harlow, I just wanted to reiterate that you’re welcome to stay here until this whole… unfortunate mess with your mom gets sorted out. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, and if having a place to stay takes one stressor off your plate, well then, we’re happy to have you. We’ve got the space, and if you weren’t staying in that guest room, it would be sitting empty. That makes no sense.”
“Thank you.” I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to keep the emotion welling up inside me from spilling over. Now would not be a great time to break down and cry. “It… it means a lot to me, sir. And it means even more to my mom. So, really, thank you.”
“Of course,” he says again, reaching over to pat my knee. He squeezes it gently, then he grimaces. “But the reason I wanted to speak with you is that we will need to hire a new housekeeper while your mom is indisposed. Just temporarily,” he adds quickly, holding up his hands. “When she comes back, she’s welcome to reclaim her old position. We’ve been very happy with her work. And yours.”
“Thank you.”
The words are automatic, as if he and I are playing some kind of call and response game where he says “of course” and I say “thank you”. But my throat closes as I finish speaking, and I have to work hard to keep my face composed.
The fact that he’s even talking about hiring Mom back is a fucking miracle. He’s gone so far above and beyond what an employer owes his employees it’s not even funny. But hearing him talk about this just reminds me how short a time it’s truly been since Mom was arrested, and how long it still might be before she breathes free air again.
He must see the tightening of my expression, because he sighs, setting his glass down on the dark wood end table.
“I’m sorry, Harlow. I know it will be difficult for you to see someone else in what was, to you, your mother’s space. That’s why I wanted to speak to you about it before I hired someone—so it wouldn’t come as a shock to you. But this is a large house, and the upkeep of it can’t wait indefinitely. So for the time being, we need to bring someone new in.”
I force myself to nod, and when I finally get my head to move, it doesn’t stop, bobbling like it’s attached to a spring. “Sure. I understand.”
He draws in a deep breath, his chest expanding against the tailored lines of his suit, then puffs his cheeks out as he releases it. He picks his glass up again, holding it lightly between his fingers. “Good. Thank you, Harlow. I’m truly sorry this is happening. Your mother doesn’t deserve this.”
My stomach twists, and I feel like maybe I should make whatever excuses it takes to end this conversation so I can run upstairs and release the tears that are burning behind my eyes. But instead, I blurt out, “How do you know?”
Mr. Black cocks his head, swirling the dark amber liquid in his glass. “Know what?”
“You said my mom doesn’t deserve this. How do you know? Why do you think she’s innocent?”
His head jerks back a little as his brows pull together. “Harlow, you think she’s innocent, don’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
A smile breaks through the look of consternation on his face. “Good. Good.” He takes another sip, hesitating for a moment before he speaks again. “I do too. I like to credit myself with being a fairly good judge of character. In my business, understanding people and why they do the things they do is key. I haven’t known you and your mom for very long, but I feel like I’ve gotten a good handle on who you are—what kind of people you are. And I sincerely don’t believe your mother is capable of what she’s been accused of.”
An ache builds in my chest as he speaks, something both sweet and painful. I had no idea how much I needed to hear another person say that they unequivocally believe my mom is innocent, that they don’t think she has it in her character to murder someone.
To stand with her, despite the evidence building up against her.
“Thank you, Mr. Black,” I whisper, reaching up to swipe at an escaped tear that trails down my cheek.
“Samuel, please.” He smiles gently. “It will be all right, Harlow. I wish there was more I could do, but I have to hope that if we let justice run its course, your mother will be fully exonerated. Then we can put this whole ugly mess behind us.”
“Thank you. Samuel.”
He pats my knee one more time, swallows the last sip of whiskey in his glass, then heaves himself to his feet. He returns to the liquor cabinet and deposits the glass there before glancing back over at me.
“I’ll be bringing someone on soon, probably in the next few days. If I provide boxes, will you be able to pack up your mother’s things? I can have people come take care of it, but I wasn’t sure if—”
“No! I’ll do it,” I say quickly. After watching Detective Dunagan and his officers ransack her little apartment, the thought of anyone else touching her stuff makes me feel sick.
“I thought that might be the case.” He nods. “I’ll have boxes delivered tomorrow morning, so you can get started as soon as you’re ready.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I hate this. I hate it so much. Thinking about packing up my mom’s stuff feels like admitting she’s not coming back. But I’m glad he’s not having someone else do it. I’m glad I won’t just wake up one morning and see a stranger coming out of my mom’s old apartment without having had a chance to prepare for it.
My heart feels like a rock in my chest, but I know that, just as Lincoln did the night Mom was arrested, Mr. Black is offering me the best possible choice out of a plethora of shitty options.
He purses his lips, looking like he wants to say something else, but I don’t know what on earth he would say—and apparently, neither does he, because he just turns and heads for his desk, unlocking it before opening the top drawer and grabbing out a stack of papers and two manilla envelopes.
“Well, I’ve got to go.” He taps the edges of the papers and folders on the desk to align them in a neat stack, glancing over at me quickly. “I have a meeting this afternoon. Work never stops, not even on the weekends. But thank you for speaking to me, Harlow. And please, if you need anything, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks.”
He nods, then strides to the door, holding it open for me before exiting the room himself. I watch him walk away and disappear around the corner, but I stay where I am for a moment, gripping the door frame like I need the support to remain standing.
Hell, maybe I do.
The house is quiet. I’m sure Lincoln is upstairs, probably waiting for me, waiting to make sure everything’s okay.
I don’t know where Audrey
is. She tends to disappear into the master bedroom for long periods of time, and whenever I see her in the rest of the house, she reminds me of a ghost roaming a haunted mansion. I’m never quite sure where she’s going or where she’s coming from.
I take a step into the hall, about to head toward the stairs—but then I hesitate.
Mr. Black grabbed two manilla envelopes from the drawer. Was one of them the paternity test I saw when I snooped in his desk all those weeks ago? He didn’t lock the drawer back up this time. At least, I don’t think he did. So there’s an easy way to answer that question.
I glance both ways down the hall, making sure no one is coming, then duck back into Mr. Black’s study. I don’t dawdle, making a beeline for the desk and pulling on the drawer. It slides open easily, since I was right—the lock hasn’t been engaged at all.
There are a few papers scattered across the bottom of the drawer, some pens and paperclips, but no manilla envelopes.
It’s gone.
Whether it was in one of the envelopes he just took with him, I don’t know, but it’s definitely not in here anymore.
I’m tugging the drawer open a little farther, bending down to peer into the back corners, when a soft sound outside makes my head snap up. My heart rattles in my chest as I shove the drawer closed again, arresting the sharp movement at the last second so it doesn’t make a noise.
As soon as it’s shut, I bolt for the door, and I’m just stepping out of the study when Audrey walks up. She’s wearing loose, flowing house pants and a simple but luxurious green top. Her chestnut brown hair is piled on her head in a messy updo that still manages to look elegant.
She blinks at me slowly, stopping in her tracks. “Where’s Samuel?”
“Oh, um, he had to step out. He had a meeting, he said. Work.” I’m clinging to the door frame again, and I force myself to release my grip on it so I can step past her.
She turns to watch me as I do, a look of mild curiosity and maybe a little suspicion on her face. “What were you doing in his study? Were you cleaning?”
