The next morning, Marisol expected to be fired.

Instead, Mrs. Constance handed her a mop.

“Third floor.”

Marisol stared.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I’m still employed?”

“Apparently.”

Marisol leaned closer.

“Is Mr. Sarno feeling all right?”

Mrs. Constance almost smiled.

“Go clean.”

At noon, Marisol entered Giata’s room.

Giata was waiting.

“You came back.”

“I need the paycheck.”

“I meant here.”

Marisol smiled.

“I need an audience.”

She turned on the small radio.

Giata laughed.

Outside the half-open door, Elias listened.

He didn't enter.

For the next two weeks, the same thing happened.

Marisol cleaned.

Giata talked.

Sometimes they played cards.

Sometimes Marisol danced badly.

Sometimes they argued.

And slowly, Giata returned to the rest of the house.

First the hallway.

Then the upstairs balcony.

Then one afternoon, Mrs. Constance froze when the elevator opened downstairs.

Giata rolled herself into the dining room.

Elias stood.

His sister looked at him.

“Don't make this weird.”

He slowly sat again.

“All right.”

Marisol stood behind Giata.

“Your sister wants lunch in here.”

“I heard her.”

Giata pointed toward Marisol.

“She eats too.”

Marisol shook her head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Employees don't eat with Mr. Sarno.”

Giata looked at Elias.

“Fix that.”

Elias gestured toward a chair.

“Sit.”

Marisol remained standing.

“That's exactly how dictators talk.”

Giata laughed.

Elias looked at Marisol.

“Do you always argue this much?”

“Only when I'm awake.”

Giata laughed harder.

Elias’s mouth almost curved.

Almost.

Then his gaze dropped.

Marisol was favoring her left leg.

“What happened to your knee?”

“Nothing.”

“That isn't nothing.”

“Old injury.”

“Doctor?”

“Expensive.”

“Insurance?”

Marisol laughed once.

“You really do live in a different Chicago.”

Elias became quiet.

That evening, he called Mrs. Constance into his office.

“What do we know about Reyes?”

“Good worker. Never late.”

“Family?”

“None nearby.”

“Money?”

Mrs. Constance hesitated.

“She takes every extra shift.”

Elias leaned back.

“Why?”

“I don't ask employees about their private lives.”

“Start.”

The following afternoon, Elias saw Marisol outside his study.

“You wanted me?”

“Yes.”

He pushed a card across his desk.

“Doctor.”

Marisol didn't touch it.

“My knee is fine.”

“It isn't.”

“I can't afford that doctor.”

“You don't have to.”

Now she looked at him.

“No.”

Elias frowned.

“No?”

“I don't accept gifts from employers.”

“It's medical treatment.”

“Still a gift.”

“Consider it compensation for helping Giata.”

“No.”

“You're unusually comfortable telling me no.”

“I'm terrified.”

“You don't look terrified.”

“That's because I'm talented.”

Despite himself, Elias smiled.

Marisol noticed.

For one second, neither spoke.

Then Elias said, “Why won't you take help?”

“Because help sometimes sends a bill later.”

Something in her voice stopped him.

Elias took back the card.

“All right.”

Marisol reached the door.

“Marisol.”

She turned.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Elias looked toward the ceiling, toward Giata’s room.

“You know.”

Marisol nodded.

“I like her.”

“So do I.”

“Then maybe stop treating her like she's made of glass.”

The warmth disappeared from his expression.

“You don't know what happened.”

“No.”

Marisol opened the door.

“But I know what loneliness looks like.”

She left.

That night, Elias summoned his security chief.

“Run Marisol Reyes again.”

“We already cleared her.”

“Do it again.”

An hour later, the man returned carrying a folder.

“There’s something strange.”

Elias opened it.

“What?”

“Her hiring file.”

“What about it?”

“She didn't apply here.”

Elias looked up.

The security chief continued.

“Her application originally went to a warehouse cleaning contractor.”

“Then how did she end up in my house?”

“We're trying to determine that.”

Elias turned another page.

Then stopped.

At the bottom was an authorization signature.

Emmett Vance.

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