Being lied to by someone you’d chosen had a particular weight to it. She’d watched her mother carry that weight for years.
“I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.” Something shifted in his expression, almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t been expecting the apology or maybe he hadn’t been expecting it in that form, the version that addressed him rather than the situation.
“I came to offer you a position,” he said. She set her coffee down. “I’m listening.”
“Temporary.” “On my household staff.” “Legitimate work.” “I’ll pay three times your current day rate.”
He looked at her directly. “I need someone on the inside who sees things. You’ve demonstrated you’re capable of that.”
“You want me to spy on your fiance?” He didn’t flinch at the word. “I want someone who pays attention.”
Imani looked at him. She thought about what this would mean, being inside that estate, being close to Celestine Harrow, being the kind of invisible that might become visible if Celestine decided to look.
She thought about what Celestine had said through the wall. She thought about what a woman who would drug her own fiance’s food might do to a south side cleaning temp who’d gotten in her way.
“No,” she said. Callaway nodded once, not surprised, not arguing. He wrapped his hands around the mug again.
“All right,” he said. He didn’t move to leave. Imani looked at him. “You’re still sitting there.”
“You haven’t asked me what I’ll do instead.” “That’s your business.” “It will involve lawyers and a very long, very public process,” he said.
“And until it’s finished, Celestine stays where she is. Access to the estate, access to my staff, access to” He stopped.
“She’s been my fiance for eight months. She knows where everything is.” Imani understood what he was saying without him saying it.
“And you need someone she doesn’t think to watch,” Imani said. He said nothing, which was an answer.
She looked down at her coffee. Through the wall of the apartment, she could hear her phone, left on the kitchen counter, buzzing with what she already knew was the billing department at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
The dialysis fund review, Reuben’s account. She’d called three times this week and been asked to hold and then disconnected and the billing coordinator had told her that if the account wasn’t updated by end of month, services would be scheduled for review, which was the hospital’s way of saying they were going to make a decision she wasn’t going to like.
She looked up. “Reuben’s medical bills,” she said. “Full coverage, not a contribution. Full coverage through a third party so the hospital doesn’t question it.
And if he needs the transplant before the end of the year, that’s covered, too.”
Callaway looked at her carefully. “Who’s Reuben?” “My brother.” “He’s 22. He’s been on dialysis for three years.”
Something crossed his face, brief, real, not pity, something closer to recognition. “Full coverage,” he said.
“I’ll have my attorney set it up through a medical trust today. You’ll have documentation before end of business.”
Imani nodded once. “This doesn’t make me loyal to you,” she said. “I’m not your inside person.
I’m someone who works at your estate and pays attention and if I see something relevant, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s exactly what I need,” he said. She picked up her coffee. “Then we have an arrangement.”
She didn’t tell him what she’d noticed already in the first 30 seconds of him being in her apartment about the quality of his attention.
How carefully he’d chosen his words. But how his hands on the mug had told a different story.
