She didn’t tell him that she’d seen the exact moment he decided to trust her, which was not when she’d agreed to the arrangement, but 3 minutes earlier when she’d said, “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that,” and meant it.
She didn’t tell him any of that. It wasn’t relevant yet. What was relevant was the documentation and Reuben’s account and the fact that she was about to walk into a billionaire’s estate with a secret that his fiance would kill, apparently, very literally to protect.
Calloway Briggs finished his coffee, set the cup down, stood. “Monday morning, 7:00 a.m.,” he said.
“DeMarco will send you the details.” “I know where the estate is,” she said. He almost smiled.
It was a very brief almost. “Monday,” he said and let himself out. Imani sat at the table after he left and listened to the apartment settle back into its usual silence.
The bus route, the upstairs neighbor, her phone still buzzing from the hospital’s billing department.
She picked it up. “This is Imani Osei,” she said. “I’m calling about account number 7731B.
There’s going to be a third-party payment arrangement set up for this account today. Can you note that and hold off on any status changes until you receive the documentation?”
She listened, nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Yes, I’ll hold.” She held. She watched the street out the kitchen window.
She thought about yellow cleaning gloves and a plate in the garden and a woman’s hand opening like a small deliberate trap.
She thought about what was behind the locked room at the east wing of the Briggs estate because there was always something in houses like that.
There was always something that didn’t want to be found. She’d been good at finding things that didn’t want to be found.
Maybe it was time to find out how good. Monday arrived the way difficult things always do.
Ordinary on the surface with no visible sign of what it intended to become. Imani was at the estate’s service entrance at 6:52 a.m., 8 minutes early, in a fresh uniform she’d pressed the night before with the iron she kept under the bathroom sink.
She’d taken the 29 bus to the red line and then north and walked the last six blocks because the neighborhood near the Briggs estate wasn’t served by a route that made sense for someone coming from the south side at that hour.
The walk had been cold. Chicago in early June had still not decided how warm it wanted to be before 9:00 a.m.
And by the time she reached the service entrance, her shoulders were stiff and the sky was the particular pewter gray of a city morning that hadn’t committed to anything yet.
DeMarco was there. He nodded at her like she’d been expected, which she had, and handed her a key card and a laminated staff ID with her photo on it, which meant someone had pulled her agency file or her driver’s license record, a fact she filed away without comment.
“Staff meetings at 7:00,” he said. “Kitchen.” “Ms. Harrow isn’t on the property today. She’s in the city.”
“Does she come every day?” “Most days.” A pause. “She has a key.” Imani nodded and followed him in.
