7. Rhaim

7

RHAIM

W hen I'd gotten up from my nap, I'd made my way back down into the panic room and turned on my connection to Corvo's cameras.

Ruiz was in the lowest corridor waiting for Lia just like I'd told him, pacing back and forth, clearly wondering if I was wasting his time.

As I rubbed sleep out of my eyes, I had to admit I was curious about that too.

Would she even show?

Had she talked to her father yet?

I was still alive.

I went upstairs to grab myself a beer—there was no reason why I shouldn't get to have a buzz on if I was going to die—and by the time I got back, Ruiz was gone.

Had she been a no-show and had he given up on her?

I hopped through cameras again until I caught him—both of them. Him leading her to the facilities locker room down the hall.

They were having some sort of conversation. That was the only bad thing about the cameras. They didn't pick up sounds, so I couldn't tell what they were saying, but when she came out, she had a janitorial uniform on, seemingly without question, and then followed him with her gear up into an upstairs bathroom like a puppy dog.

I squinted at the camera, after taking a long sip of my beer, finding myself lightly jealous of the other man—and curious if, after twenty seconds or so, she'd run out screaming, shaking her head.

But no, they were in there together for what seemed like an eternity—long enough that I sat and did the math as to how quickly I could get back into town, ignoring my growing BAL—then they reappeared with their trashcans full, to haul their supplies to the next one.

They did the same for another bathroom, parted ways, and Lia was on her own for a third.

She didn't have the decency to seem disgusted, or really all that upset, so I figured I'd drink along with her, until she was.

Lord knew she'd never had to clean a bathroom before at her father's house, and likely hadn't ever had to do a single chore while off at boarding school.

But somehow, over the course of the evening, she seemed happy. Ruiz came and brought her a Snickers bar, and told her to take a break—I knew, because he went off to his breakroom, like a good union employee—but she didn't, she just kept cleaning.

And possibly talking to herself, like I'd been in the park yesterday morning.

Without sound, it took me a bit to realize what was going on—it wasn't till I saw her shimmy without a hint of self-consciousness that I realized she was singing.

And dancing.

Swaying her delectable hips as she pushed her trash cart and rolling mop bucket down the halls.

I almost stood at the realization.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I muttered.

She was supposed to be being punished by this. To be too prideful for it.

Not using it like it was her chance to be on The Voice .

I reached out for her image on the monitor screen, running a thumb over her, like I could somehow crush her physically from afar.

This could not be allowed to stand.

I fell back into my chair and contemplated my options. There wasn't much I could do from here to fuck with her, but the next time she went into a bathroom, where my cameras couldn't follow, I waited about ten minutes and then flipped the power off to her entire floor.

The downside of doing so was I couldn't see what havoc—if any—my actions had wrought for her.

Note to self: install heat vision cameras this upcoming winter.

I counted down in the darkness along with her patiently, and saw a flicker of light as she came out of the bathroom—of course she had her phone with her; it was playing her music—but then it disappeared before she turned her own flashlight on and I didn't know why.

If I caught her taking a nap when I flipped the power back on, I was going to pull the fire alarm.

But what I found instead when I turned the lights on was completely unexpected.

Daddy's little girl was on her hands and knees in the middle of the tile hallway, puking her guts out.

I sat forward on my chair.

Had she been drinking on the job tonight?

Just like me?

I scanned the lines of her baggy uniform, wondering if she had a flask on her, and if so, where, as she surprised me again by crawling down the hall, like she couldn't manage standing. She didn't stop until her back was against a desk and she was catching her breath like she'd just run a marathon.

I had the nearest camera zoom in on her as closely as it could, and I swear to fuck it showed her trembling. She was holding herself now, one thumb on the wrist of her opposite hand, muttering—not singing—wildly.

What had happened to her on her own in the dark?

I'd have sworn that she'd seen a ghost, only I knew I'd never had anyone killed in that bathroom.

My hand instinctively reached for the beer again—but instead of bringing it to my lips, I pushed it farther away on my desk, and opened up my desk's top drawer instead for a long-forbidden cigarette.

Three days passed.

Each night I watched Lia walk into the building and clean. Ruiz never made her do the grease traps, because she wasn't as fast as he was, but she slowly took over servicing more and more floors.

And each night, as I sipped a Red Bull and chain smoked through the last carton I'd hidden away when I quit to help me stay up, I thought about flipping the lights off on her one more time, but for some reason, stopped.

Because apparently she hadn't reported our prior interaction to her father.

The weather'd been delightful. It was a beautiful summer, so I'd left the windows open the entire time, even when I was sleeping, keeping an odd schedule so I could keep an eye on her. I spent half the night up, watching her sing and dance, and then slept in every morning before puttering around the house, doing odd bits of chores, re-screwing in weather-loosened boards in the stable, painting spots only I could see on the walls, or playing in the field with Gracie.

Gracie had retired years ago. After Isabelle had died, I hadn't had the heart to let anyone else ride her again, but I couldn't bring myself to give her up, either. I bought her a donkey once to keep her company, but she'd been so mean to the thing that I'd had to let it go.

But with me, and with Alonzo and his kids, she was like a golden retriever instead of a palomino, running one way and then the next when we played chase, until she'd stop on a dime, and it was my turn to run from her.

She was a good horse.

And I was happy when I heard Alonzo's truck come up the road, with one of his girls bouncing in her car seat on the passenger side, squealing to be set free. He rounded the truck and did so, and the second her feet reached the ground she bolted straight for the fence line to duck under the lowest rail. Gracie went for her just as quickly, and started whuffling her down for treats as Alonzo came over to greet me, coming at a much more stately pace through the pasture's gate. He was wearing dark slacks and a button-down bowling shirt with light stains under the pits. His very tanned and wrinkled face said he spent most of his afternoons drinking slowly on a porch somewhere.

I dusted my hands off on my jeans before shaking his—I'd been pulling weeds that morning. Alonzo was old school, the same age as Nero, a generation older than me, and his girls were his grandchildren—his son had gotten killed during a territory dispute outside a gun storage warehouse in Namibia. Theoretically, he'd gotten out of the game to help his daughter-in-law take care of them, but anyone who knew him knew it was because he had a broken heart.

"You always sleep with your windows open?" he asked, jerking his head towards the farmhouse, with a slightly concerned look on his face.

"The fresh air agrees with me, what can I say?" I stood up straighter and popped my back. I strongly doubted Nero would've sent Alonzo to kill me, or him come to do so with his grandkid in tow.

"Nero wanted me to check and see if you were up here."

"He did, did he?" I asked, trying to sound conversational.

He looked over my shoulder, at where his girl was contentedly thumping Gracie's neck and belly anywhere her grubby little hands could reach.

"Cut the crap, Rhaim," he said, in a low voice. "What do you want me to tell him?" He pulled out his phone and gestured at me with it. "Phone reception up here's notoriously shitty. I could've gotten his text this morning—but I also might not see it till tonight."

I gave him a smile that passed for kind. Not many people would risk lying to Nero Ferreo—much less for my sake.

"You can tell him I'm here."

One of his hoary eyebrows cocked high. "Right now? You're sure?"

"Yeah." I wasn't hiding really—and I'd be damned if I got him or his girls in trouble because of me.

Who'd watch after Gracie then?

"There's a safe behind one of the portraits. I switched the combination to be Jenny's birthday," I said, jerking my chin towards the little girl now roaming the field with my horse. Every once in a while she would clap her hands, and Gracie would pose dramatically for her, springing her tail up and lifting a foreleg, performing her old show tricks for her rapt audience of one. "Should be enough in there to keep Gracie in hay till she dies naturally."

He grunted. "So it's like that?"

I shrugged. "Could be."

Alonzo stared me down and gave a long-suffering sigh. I knew he thought well of me—I'd helped him set up college savings plans for his girls. "Should've kept your nose clean, son," he said, sounding disgruntled.

And my hands above the waist, where they belonged. I couldn't help but chuckle darkly. "I know."

"In any case, I'll make sure to come up here my next few times alone. Don't want Amy or Jennifer to see anything untoward." He looked at his phone again, like someone unfamiliar with the technology. "I think the reception's still shitty right now, though," he said, feigning incompetence. "And I'm pretty sure the last text I got from you promised me a beer."

"I'm certain it did," I agreed, as both of us started walking back to the farmhouse's porch.