Chapter 6 - The Night Emma Stayed
Marcus was back in Chicago.
The information changed every room.
Every car.
Every face at the gate.
Before, I had believed danger could be managed by adding men.
More cameras.
More weapons.
More locked doors.
Now I understood Marcus had survived for years by understanding exactly how men like me built security.
So I did something that confused everyone.
I reduced the estate staff.
Anyone not essential was sent home with pay.
Private security was replaced in key positions by officers coordinated through Detective Ellis.
Luke complained for an hour.
Then admitted it was smart.
Emma refused to leave.
“You are the person he is most likely to target after Catherine,” I told her.
“I know.”
“Then go to the safe apartment.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My mother is here.”
Catherine had been moved into the estate’s medical suite temporarily after a threat against Dr. Sen’s clinic.
“You can stay near her in a protected hotel.”
Emma crossed her arms.
“You hate hotels.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You complained for twenty minutes about hospital sheets. Imagine hotel sheets.”
I stared.
She smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“I’m staying because she knows this house now. New places make her worse.”
That was reasonable.
I hated reasonable.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me like you won.”
“I won.”
She went back to work.
Not housekeeping.
She had stopped taking normal cleaning shifts once the investigation began.
Instead, she helped Catherine eat, sat with her during confused episodes, and occasionally bullied me into taking medication correctly.
That last role was unofficial.
One night, phantom pain woke me at three.
I did not shout.
I did not throw anything.
Progress.
I rolled into the bedroom sitting room and found Emma asleep in a chair beside Catherine’s monitor feed.
She woke when I entered.
“Pain?”
“How do you know?”
“You make that face.”
“I have one face.”
“You have seventeen angry faces.”
She stood.
“Pill?”
“Already took it.”
She looked impressed.
“Who are you?”
“Get out.”
“That’s one.”
She smiled.
Then stumbled.
I caught her forearm instinctively.
My hands worked.
My upper body was strong.
She steadied herself against the chair.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“I stood too fast.”
“When did you eat?”
She looked away.
Of course.
I wheeled toward the small refrigerator.
She groaned.
“Don’t.”
I took out a sandwich.
“Sit.”
“You are enjoying this too much.”
“Very much.”
She sat on the edge of my bed.
I handed her the sandwich.
She took three bites before speaking.
“My mother remembered my father tonight.”
“What did she say?”
“That he liked terrible jazz.”
I smiled.
“You hate jazz?”
“I hate bad jazz.”
“Objective standard?”
“Absolutely.”
We fell quiet.
The bedroom looked different with someone else awake in it.
Less like a mausoleum.
Emma looked toward my legs beneath the navy pajama pants.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You usually do without permission.”
“Do you feel anything?”
“Sometimes.”
“Pain?”
“Mostly.”
“Anything else?”
I moved my right foot in my mind.
Nothing visible.
“Pressure occasionally.”
“What do doctors say?”
“That the injury was incomplete, but after two years, significant recovery is unlikely.”
“Unlikely isn’t impossible.”
I looked at her.
“Do not become one of those motivational people.”
“I’m too tired.”
“Good.”
She finished half the sandwich.
“Why did you stop physical therapy?”
“Because it wasn’t changing anything.”
“That’s not the whole answer.”
“You’re a maid, not a therapist.”
“Former maid.”
I hated the word former.
Not because I wanted her cleaning.
Because it implied an end.
“I stopped because every session felt like being graded on the body I lost.”
Emma said nothing.
That was why I kept talking.
“People clapped when a toe moved. Looked disappointed when it didn’t. Told me to be grateful I was alive.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
She nodded.
No judgment.
No speech.
Just acceptance.
That was more kindness than encouragement.
“Luke thinks I should start again.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Luke enjoys watching me suffer.”
Emma smiled.
“Probably.”
Then she lay back against the pillows.
Not beside me.
Just exhausted.
“I’m resting for five minutes.”
“You said that once before.”
Her eyes closed.
“I know.”
Within a minute, she was asleep.
Again.
I should have moved.
Instead I watched the rain begin outside the windows.
The image was absurdly peaceful.
Wheelchair beside the bed.
Mafia boss in silk pajamas.
Exhausted woman asleep against the comforter.
No guards.
No shouting.
I rested my hand lightly on the top of her head.
This time she woke.
Her eyes opened.
Neither of us moved.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“Touching you.”
She looked at my hand.
Then at me.
“You can leave it.”
My chest tightened.
So I did.
No kiss.
No confession.
Just a hand in her hair while the storm moved over Chicago.
Then the security alarm sounded.
Emma sat up instantly.
Luke’s voice came through the intercom.
“Danny. Medical wing.”
We moved.
Catherine’s room was empty.
The window was closed.
No forced entry.
No broken locks.
Her IV line lay neatly disconnected.
A nurse was unconscious in the hall.
Alive.
Emma screamed her mother’s name.
On the bed sat Catherine’s old employee badge.
Beneath it was a note.
BRING THE LEDGER TO LOWER WACKER.
COME ALONE.
Marcus.
I read it once.
Emma grabbed my chair.
“You are not going alone.”
“He wants the ledger.”
“He wants you.”
“Same difference.”
“No.”
Her eyes were furious.
“You do not get to decide your life is expendable because your legs don’t work.”
The words hit me harder than she intended.
She realized it immediately.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
“No. I meant you keep acting like dying is easier than needing people.”
Silence.
Luke arrived with Detective Ellis.
Emma did not look away from me.
“You want to save my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us help you.”
Us.
Not guards.
Not soldiers.
Us.
I looked at the note.
For two years, my answer to danger had been control.
Maybe control was exactly what Marcus expected.
I handed the note to Ellis.
“Build the plan.”
Emma exhaled.
Luke smiled faintly.
“What?”
I snapped.
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“You’re evolving.”
“I can still throw paperweights.”
He laughed.
Then Detective Ellis’s phone rang.
She answered, listened, and went pale.
“What?”
She looked at Emma.
“They found Catherine.”
Emma grabbed the desk.
“Where?”
“Lower Wacker.”
Relief came too early.
Ellis continued.
“She’s alive.”
Emma cried.
Then Ellis looked at me.
“And Marcus is with her.”
My blood went cold.
“He wants to talk.”
“To who?”
May you like
Ellis held out the phone.
“To you.”
