4. Winter

FOUR

WINTER

W hen the car exits the interstate, my palms itch to take my emergency Xanax. The urge to turn around is strong, and I've stopped myself from telling the driver to take me back to the safety of my apartment at least three times over the last half-hour of the trip.

Despite all my accomplishments, I've never had to interview for a job. At least, not a real job interview like this one. The gig I secured at the Trauma Resource Center lab in undergrad was held virtually and super relaxed.

And as evidenced by how I'm trussed up like a holiday turkey, this is anything but a comfortable experience.

You can do this, Winter.

I repeat the affirmation and go through three cycles of my breathing technique before we take a sharp right onto a tree-lined street. Kitty presses into my side. His movement reconfirms that bringing him along was the right choice.

I practiced what I would say to introduce him and why he's there, and I feel somewhat comfortable that it will be well-received. And if it's not…well, fuck ‘em.

Tall oak trees line the single-lane road like something out of Gone with the Wind. My mom was a huge fan of Turner Classic Movies, and we would watch Scarlett O'Hara chase after Ashley a dozen times a year.

I'm on my way to Tara.

I chuckle out loud, and the driver—Paul, according to his Uber profile—glances at me for the twelfth time on the mostly silent drive.

I don't blame him. I stood outside his car for a solid three minutes to go through my ritual before I could enter, but he didn't balk at Kitty's presence in the back of his car. Too often I have to relay large portions of the Americans with Disabilities Act at unsuspecting drivers like I'm reciting the Gettysburg Address.

He looked slightly bewildered when I finally did settle into the back seat but didn't ask me anything beyond confirming the address in Alexandria.

I can do this. I can do this well. This won't kill me. This will free me. And if I don't get the job, it's not the end of the world. I can try again.

Resolved and feeling significantly calmer, I take one more cleansing breath and open my eyes to the sight of the sprawling mansion.

Oh shit, it is Tara.

To describe the massive home in front of me as merely a house would be a drastic understatement. The estate spans farther than I can see, and I can tell there are multiple buildings on the land.

A cobblestone driveway encases a lavish water fountain with two angels entwined in an embrace at the top of the feature. The double front door has to be fifteen feet tall and is covered in sparkling glass.

A curvy woman who looks like a body double for Bailey Sarian stands on the short stone staircase in a casual bodycon dress. She must be waiting for me.

"Here you go," Paul says, gawking at the mansion as he gets within a few feet of the stone stairs and the woman. He rolls toward the entrance at three miles per hour.

A flash of anxiety shoots through my body from head to toe, and Kitty puts a paw on my arm.

I can fucking do this, damn it.

Paul looks nervous, like I might break down in his Ford Focus.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat. "Oh, yes, sure." I fumble for my phone to pull up the app to close out the ride.

"Okay, so this is going to sound weird," I begin, trying to both catch Paul's gaze and avoid Paul's gaze. He squints like he is not in the mood for anything weird. Weirder.

"If I paid you"— Say fifty dollars, Winter— "two hundred dollars"— Goddamn it, Winter— "would you stay here for the hour it will take me to complete this interview?"

I try to smile at him, but I'm sure I look a little maniacal, so I purse my lips to loosen the tension in my cheeks before trying again. Kitty's head joins his paw on my arm.

Paul's eyebrows are in his hairline now.

He clears his throat. "Two hundred…yeah, sure. I'll need it upfront, though. Just to make sure, y'know?"

I take another deep breath and say "sure" more times than is probably acceptable before I get his payment info and send him two hundred dollars.

He comes to a complete stop in front of the stairs.

"Here you go. You'll wait for me here, right?" His phone pings with the payment notification.

"Right. I'll just be on TikTok while I wait for you." He waves his phone in the air before dropping it back in the cup holder.

I smooth my hair back, pinning what I hope is a natural smile on my face.

"Great."

I take one more breath before opening the door and exiting the car .

Slinging my sensible tawny-colored Italian leather briefcase over my shoulder, I do a slight shimmy to pull down my black pencil skirt and make sure my white button-down blouse is tucked and straight. I flat ironed my hair today, parting it down the middle and securing the front pieces behind my ears. I even managed to draw a symmetrical cat eye and apply a thin strip of lashes in one try—a skill only mastered after a thousand hours on YouTube Beauty University.

Clearly, I'm ready to dominate the day.

The woman waiting for me eyes me with a curious look, her gaze sliding to Kitty at my side.

"Ella Brigham," she says, holding her hand out to me. "Thank you for being here and being on time."

I'm not sure what she means by that, and I swallow down any budding offense. Her face gives nothing away. I look down at my wrist and note that it's 1:50 p.m., ten minutes before my interview.

"Oh! Not that I expected you to be late. The last person was an hour late. They said they couldn't find the place." She rolls her eyes and shakes her head slightly.

Ah, I see. I think.

"Sure, I left super early to make sure I made it with time to spare. Thank you for meeting with me, Ella. Er, Ms.Brigham," I say, standing up straighter. I clear my throat. "This is my service dog?—"

"Oh, God , call me Ella." She finally smiles before her eyes widen. "Sorry, I cut you off. You were saying?"

She bounces on her heels a little bit as she examines Kitty's patches. She must see the one that says, "Eye contact distracts me. I'm workin' here!" because her eyes zip back to my face, and she doesn't look at him again.

"Uh, yes. This is my service dog. Dr. Wagner likely didn't tell you, but I do have a disability, and my dog is one of my accessibility aids. He comes with me, but his presence nor my disability impact my ability to perform the tasks needed."

I breathe in and settle for relaxing my face. I probably look bitchy, but if I try to smile, I'm sure my lips will do that annoying spasm thing again.

"Of course! Oh, gosh, we're all about disabilities here. Wait, that sounded really weird." She loosens a loud laugh, and I notice her tongue is…purple?

"I meant to say, we are very familiar with needing accommodations. Have you met my nephew?"

I start to answer yes and no, because I've read his case file thoroughly, but I, of course, have never met him.

"Lord, of course you haven't met him," she says, bopping her head slightly at her blunder. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I really like her. She's funny. Talking to her is a little like standing in chaos.

Be professional , I order myself.

"Anyway, the point is it isn't a problem or a concern. If you'll just—" A blur with dark brown hair barrels into her.

"Stop running!" Two large men who look physically strong but like they're slow runners attempt to sprint behind a thin teen covered in mud.

The kid laughs hysterically, bent over and clutching his mud-caked hands to his stomach.

The men double down on trying to catch him.

That must be August, the client.

August sprints toward the water fountain, inches from jumping in the small pool when one of the men feints to the side and grabs him by the arm.

"Ow!" August says, and the man swings him over his shoulder, banding his arms across August's thighs.

I bristle at the rough movements.

The other man—a guard, I presume—bends over at the waist to catch his breath.

"Sorry, Miss Ella," the huffing man says. "He was outside one minute, and the next he was covered in mud and streaking through the goddamn house." Catching his breath, he follows the other man and August around the side of the house.

"Oooookay, then." She shrugs her shoulders and lifts her hands as if to say, Kids, am I right?

For an inexplicable reason, I find myself mirroring her pose, and when the realization that I'm doing so hits me square in the face, I drop my hands. Heat crawls up my neck.

"C'mon in."

Kitty, the consummate professional, heels next to me with precision. I, on the other hand, gawk at the massive front entryway as I follow her into this obscenely large mansion. White and gray marble floors gleam in the soft sunlight, and the chandelier rivals anything I'd seen in any of the houses my mom used to bring me to when visiting important political people. Twin staircases frame the sides of the entrance, and beyond them, a wall of windows overlooks rolling hills in the distance.

We don't go far into the foyer before turning to a sitting room a few feet from the entrance.

"Please have a seat. Water? Tea?" She pauses to look at me.

"Nothing for me. Thank you," I say. I take the leash off Kitty's harness, putting it in my bag.

She nods before sitting on the caramel-colored leather loveseat. I follow her lead and sit on one of the complementary emerald armchairs across from her. Then she chucks off her shoes and curls her legs underneath her on the couch. I resist the urge to lift my eyebrows in surprise.

The sitting room is clearly set for just that. Sitting. Artwork that I'm sure costs more than a car adorns the wall, and the high ceilings feature ornate crown molding.

"August's dad will be joining us shortly," she says .

I snap my eyes back to Ella and smile again, rubbing my hands over my hair to ensure I tame my flyaways.

"Okay, so, Winter," she says as she opens a black leather portfolio and pulls out my resume.

"You graduated from Liberty Falls University with your bachelor's and you're in their doctoral program. Childhood psychology, right?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak quite yet.

"I see you've published articles and are highly recommended by Dr.Wagner. It looks like you've volunteered, but have you actually worked…anywhere?"

She places her hands in her lap over my resume—my woefully underdeveloped resume—and sits with a smile as she waits for my response.

I recall what Genevieve and I practiced during my week of email purgatory.

"Thank you, Ella. Yes, while I haven't held many paid roles as I've been dedicated to my studies, I have worked almost exclusively with children as a volunteer for The Trauma Resource Center in D.C. My focus is on childhood trauma and developmental disabilities, and I've volunteered my time working with clients for the past three years."

I breathe and smile, feeling Genevieve telling me to pace my speech.

"Interesting." That's all Ella says.

Not sure if I should continue, I say, "I created programming for clients ages three to seventeen that involved art and memory recoding. The core of the program I created was a blend of EMDR and somatic bodywork. I facilitated a small group program for teenage girls who faced parental loss."

I don't mention that I've literally never met anyone I've worked with in person.

Suddenly, from deep into the house, a scream rings out, cutting through the thick silence of the rest of the mansion. My face falls at the suddenness of the sound, and I clutch my hands in my lap. Kitty presses against my leg.

"Okay, that sounds good," she says, but I can tell she's distracted. We both sit in silence for a moment before she continues. She clears her throat before resituating herself on the loveseat.

"Tell me about your experience working with Autistic kids. My nephew is Autistic. He primarily uses AAC to communicate. He hasn't had very many good days lately. That said, he can go into sensory overload. Sometimes, he has meltdowns. Have you ever worked with a kid like that?"

"I've worked with many Autistic kids, some who need lots of additional support or alternative communication methods. One of my kids?—"

The yelling starts again, even louder this time. I recognize the pitch of August's voice in the jumble of sounds. A booming male voice that seems to be trying to drown out August's noises with his own aggravated tone is a cacophonous addition.

"Stop!" The man bellows, his voice getting closer to where Ella and I sit.

August's voice gets louder. I can't understand what he's saying, but his urgency tells me he needs something.

"One of my kids, I can't tell you his name due to confidentiality?—"

"Stop—párate hijo de la chingada!" I gasp at the agitation punctuating the man's words and feel deep outrage that he's just called a child a son of a bitch. I hear what must be August's feet as they slap against the marble floor. Coming closer.

The man lets out a frustrated roar, and the slap of skin on skin causes me to jump from my chair and rush from the room just as Ella does the same.

I turn the corner from the sitting room into the foyer and resist a primal yell at the man gripping the small teen by the arms. August dangles a few feet off the floor.

The boy's face contorts, his mouth open in an O . Tears fall from his reddened face.

August shrieks and the man squeezes his arms even tighter, impossibly tighter, and shakes him roughly.

"Shut the fuck up!" he yells in August's face, and I snap, completely losing my mind. I am enraged.

" Stop !" I demand, rushing forward. Kitty whimpers at my side and I feel him moving back and forth behind me, uncertain what to do. He's a service dog, not a guard dog. "Put him down now! " I pull at the mountain of a man hurting this child.

"Down! Now!" I yell, slapping at the man's muscle-corded arms.

He drops the boy. August falls to the ground, grabbing his elbow as it cracks against the unforgiving marble. He makes a sound of clear distress.

"How dare you? What makes you think—" I start saying with all the aggravation I feel in every fiber in my body, "—that you can treat a child this way, especially one who literally weighs less than half your body weight?"

I crouch down to August and show him my hands, wordlessly asking if I can touch his arms to see if they're bruised. August lifts his arm, staring at it as I gently put my hands on him. Kitty, finally figuring out some way to help in this situation, skids over, putting his body between me and the hulking man in front of me.

"Who are you ?" the man says roughly.

I swing my head toward the lump of muscle.

"Who are you? " I throw back.

The man scoffs, and I turn back to August. "Are you all right, August?"

"He doesn't talk," the man spits through clenched teeth.

"That doesn't mean you should beat him up, dumbass! Who the hell put you in charge of taking care of anyone? He's clearly trying to communicate something to you, and you're punishing him for it. You heathen asshole! " I'm spitting, quite literally, I fear. Covering my mouth, I gasp.

Ella vibrates with clearly decipherable fury, her eyes pinched tight and her hands balled into fists as she stares at the man.

She looks ready to launch herself at him.

I imagine the only reason she doesn't is because she's not alone. Standing next to her with a hand on her arm is Hunter Brigham.

When I researched the Brigham family last night, a ton of information popped up about Hunter and his father, Benjamin.

Hunter's father is a very attractive man, but Hunter…

He's tall with dark hair and the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Mom and I went to Carmel once, popping down there while on a trip to Sacramento. That's what his eyes look like. They're the color of the ocean off the coast of California—cerulean and stormy, a deep blue. He could be in Hollywood, starring in action movies—hanging off a helicopter or standing between two moving eighteen-wheelers Jean-Claude Van Damme style.

He wears a dark gray suit with a loose tie hanging around his collar. Just from the sheer broadness of his chest and the way his thighs fill out the wool material, it's clear he's stacked under those clothes.

The anger I feel shifts into a confusing tangle of outrage, embarrassment, and lust.

"Um, I—" I'm pretty sure I look like a fish right now.

"Rodrigo, what exactly do you think you were doing?" The god speaks. His voice has a sexy raspiness that reminds me of smoky bonfires on summer evenings. And the menacing tone belying his words causes my stomach to clench .

"Mr.Brigham. I'm sorry, I lost my temper. But you know I'm not a babysitter, and August just doesn't fucking listen—" The guard-turned-babysitter cuts himself off, probably finally getting a modicum of self-preservation.

"So your decision was to assault my son?" Mr.Brigham arches an eyebrow.

Ella lurches forward as if to pounce on the man, and Mr.Brigham's hand tightens on her arm.

Mr. Brigham widens his stance.

"I, uh. No.I mean." The man stammers.

"Out- side ." August whispers this so softly I almost don't hear it. The word bursts from his lips haltingly and with great effort. He rocks gently from side to side.

"I hear you. Let's go," I murmur to him just as softly, my words just for his ears. Turning my head in Ella and Mr.Brigham's direction, I say, "August wants to go outside, and I'm going with him." I don't care that it's presumptuous. But I can't look directly at either of them, so my gaze ping-pongs slowly between their bodies.

"Okay," Ella says slowly as if she can't piece together where we should go from here with the interview. She turns to Mr.Brigham, her back to Rodrigo.

"Handle this," she says to Mr. Brigham in a raspy whisper. I'm unsure if she means me or the mountain off to the side.

I'm sure this interview is over. It's probably not cool to curse out the rest of the staff, but…

I release a puff of air and turn back to August. "Let's go outside. Do you need help up?" I stretch my hand toward him.

He pushes it away.

"No problem. Let's go," I say, keeping my voice light. "I'm Winter, by the way," I say to him, intensely focused on getting the fuck out of the room before violence breaks out. Kitty falls in place at my heel.

After moving down the hall, I notice a door leading outside to the courtyard and follow August's lead through it. Perfectly manicured bushes surround another beautiful fountain. The courtyard is stunning—but it's clearly meant for adults to enjoy. Everything looks breakable.

There's a hole in the bushes where I can see August dug his way to freedom. Literally. A spade sticks out from another shrub, and a tablet rests on the ground off to the side.

"Kitty, relax," I command over my shoulder, and he is all too happy to saunter over to a patch of grass. He plops down as if exhausted.

I walk over to the tablet on the ground, noting the cracked screen. I press the button to turn it on. It's pulled up to an AAC app, but a few taps reveal the screen is nonresponsive.

"Well, shoot. Is this your tablet for communication?" August stands still next to me. He nods several seconds later.

"I see. Well, that's an emergency, and I imagine it's quite frustrating. We need this fixed ASAP. Let's go tell your family what the issue is. Do you have a backup tablet? Maybe you can log in to your processor with a phone in the meantime if you don't have one?" I turn to face the door to return to the Brighams while talking entirely too much. I stop, lassoed by my anxiety of seeing those people again after I blew up inside.

August pulls on my arm and drags me across the courtyard to the water feature.

"Do you like the water?" I ask him.

He faces toward me and stares in the general vicinity of my left arm. Lifting his arm, he points at the angels entwined at the center of the water feature.

He makes a sharp sound, followed by a long sigh that ends with several vocalizations. I walk around the fountain, hoping something will jump out as a clue to what he's looking for.

An exasperated grunt sounds behind me, and August grabs my hand again. He lifts my arm toward the water feature, and I see it: the cracked remains of a giant replica helicopter. The blades are broken, one completely detached from the helicopter's body and floating in the pool of water.

"Oh, I got it! Your helicopter is stuck. Dang, it's really up there. I see how you got all wet now."

I say all this while kicking off my shoes and rolling up my skirt, still talking too much. If I can save the toy without drowning, I can at least do one thing to help this kid before I never see him again.

"Okay, let me get that for you." I step on the ledge of the water fountain and stretch my right arm above my head, testing the weight of my left arm on the shoulder of the stone statue.

Stretching up on my tiptoes, I snag a corner of the helicopter. It slips from its perch and tumbles toward the pool of water. I release my clutch on the statue and grab the toy midair, flinging it toward the dry grass…which means I go into the reservoir.

Falling hard on my knees, the water splashes and lands all over me. Hair, shirt, and skirt.

Sputtering at the water cleaning out my nasal passages, I contemplate my exit from the fountain when August runs to scoop up the remains of his helicopter.

And Mr.Brigham enters the courtyard.

Great. Just fucking great.