Chapter 5 - The Boy Who Waited for Me to Come Home
My brother Eli had a rule.
Whenever I came home after a night shift, he pretended he'd just woken up.
Even when my mother told me he'd been waiting by the window for an hour.
He would sit up on the narrow bed, rub his eyes dramatically, and say:
“Oh. You're home already?”
Every morning.
Same terrible performance.
I loved him for it.
Eli had been born with a complicated congenital heart condition. He'd already undergone two procedures, and his doctors were monitoring a problem that might require another intervention.
Most days he was simply a curious eight-year-old boy who loved science videos, drawing cars, and asking questions nobody could answer before coffee.
Other days he became breathless walking upstairs.
Those were the days that frightened me.
Our apartment was on the fourth floor of an aging building in Kensington.
No elevator.
The stairwell smelled like old paint and damp concrete.
The landlord promised repairs every year.
Every year we received another rent increase.
Mom had once worked as a preschool assistant. After Dad died, she tried returning full-time, but Eli's medical appointments made regular hours difficult.
So she took occasional sewing jobs and watched him while I worked.
We lived on my wages.
The little she earned.
And careful arithmetic.
I knew exactly how far one bag of rice could stretch.
I knew which pharmacy offered discounts on particular supplies.
I knew what time the supermarket marked down bread.
And I knew how to smile when someone asked whether we were managing.
“Of course.”
Such a useful lie.
The morning Luca overheard my phone call, I had managed to negotiate another appointment with the hospital social worker.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I went home feeling defeated.
Eli was awake.
Of course.
“Already home?”
I smiled.
“Shocking, isn't it?”
He held up his battered laptop.
“Look.”
The screen showed a racing game he'd built using a free programming tutorial.
The cars were little more than colored rectangles.
One moved.
The others didn't.
“That's impressive.”
“It crashes.”
“So do real cars.”
The joke left my mouth before I could stop it.
Mom looked up sharply.
I froze.
Three years earlier, we could still laugh about driving.
Now the subject always led back to Dad.
Eli looked confused.
“Dad was a good driver.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“That's why I like cars.”
I sat beside him.
For a while, we worked on his game.
He explained every line of code.
I understood about half.
Then he asked:
“Do you think Dad knows I'm getting better at this?”
I looked at him.
My little brother had been five when Dad died.
His memories were fragments.
Dad's laugh.
The smell of his jacket.
A toy truck.
A photograph.
A voice calling him “Captain.”
I wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“I think he'd be proud.”
Eli nodded solemnly.
Then returned to his computer.
Children move through grief differently.
Sometimes it takes them ten seconds to return to being children.
Adults can spend years trying.
Mom waited until Eli went to the bathroom before speaking.
“Someone called yesterday.”
I looked up.
“Who?”
“Joe Ferris.”
My pulse quickened.
“What did he want?”
“He said you were asking about the old dispatch records.”
I looked away.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
The word came out harder than I'd ever heard from her.
I stared.
“Mom.”
“No.”
She pressed her palms against the table.
“Your father is dead.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you working in that house?”
“Because the pay is good.”
“Don't lie to me.”
Silence.
Mom's eyes filled.
“You look more like Daniel every day.”
I swallowed.
“Is that bad?”
“When he thought something was wrong, he couldn't leave it alone.”
I looked toward Dad's photograph.
“He was right.”
“We don't know that.”
“Yes, we do.”
Mom shook her head.
“Hannah, you don't understand the people you're dealing with.”
“Then explain them.”
She became very still.
I stepped closer.
“Mom, what did Dad tell you that night?”
“Nothing useful.”
“That's not true.”
Her eyes shifted toward Eli's bed.
I followed the movement.
The photograph above it.
Dad beside the black sedan.
Her gaze lingered there for half a second too long.
My pulse changed.
“What's behind that picture?”
Mom's face drained.
“Nothing.”
I took a step toward the bed.
She caught my wrist.
“Hannah.”
I stopped.
She never grabbed me.
Not like that.
“Please.”
Her voice broke.
“Don't.”
I stared at her.
“Mom, you're scaring me.”
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, she looked far older than fifty-one.
“Your father made me promise something.”
“What?”
“That I wouldn't put you or Eli in danger trying to change what happened.”
I swallowed.
“What did he ask you to hide?”
She said nothing.
I gently pulled my wrist free.
“Mom.”
She shook her head.
“Not now.”
“When?”
“Never, if I can help it.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I walked to the kitchen.
Filled the kettle.
Turned on the stove.
Then stood there staring at the blue flame.
I'd spent three years believing Mom didn't know anything more than I did.
Now I knew she'd been carrying something alone.
Something connected to the photograph.
Something strong enough to make her afraid of Luca Varela.
That afternoon, I nearly quit.
I opened my phone.
Found Mrs. Whitcomb's number.
Started writing a message.
Then deleted it.
I thought of Dad.
The police report that blamed him.
The way people looked at our family afterward.
The rumors that he had been drinking.
The insurance investigation.
The absence of anyone powerful willing to publicly defend him.
Even the funeral had felt uncomfortable.
A few former Varela employees attended.
Luca did not.
Neither did Roarke.
I had never forgiven that.
But I was beginning to realize I might have misunderstood why.
That evening, before leaving for work, Eli followed me to the door.
He held out something small.
A folded piece of notebook paper.
“What is this?”
“A map.”
I opened it.
He'd drawn our apartment building.
The street.
The bus stop.
A crooked little arrow pointing toward a large mansion.
At the bottom, he'd written:
HANNAH GOES HERE TO HELP US.
My eyes burned.
“That's right.”
He grinned.
“Does your boss have a swimming pool?”
“Probably.”
“Can we go someday?”
I laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy being employed.”
He considered that.
Then hugged me.
“Be careful.”
I closed my eyes.
“I always am.”
It was another lie.
One I desperately wanted to become true.
On the bus into Chestnut Hill, I stared at the city through rain-streaked windows.
I knew Mom was hiding something.
I knew Roarke had recognized Dad.
I knew Luca was watching me.
And I knew somebody had recently opened the old records room.
My plan had been simple.
Find the dispatch file.
Take a photograph.
Leave the mansion before anyone noticed.
Now nothing was simple.
At the estate, Mrs. Whitcomb handed me the night's assignment sheet.
Then lowered her voice.
“Mr. Varela asked you to take the morning off.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
“He said you've worked too many shifts.”
My stomach tightened.
“Am I being dismissed?”
“No.”
She frowned.
“Why would you think that?”
I didn't answer.
Mrs. Whitcomb studied me.
Then said:
“Sometimes, Miss Reed, the easiest way to frighten someone who has survived without help is to offer it.”
I looked away.
She touched my shoulder briefly.
“Go home after breakfast.”
I nodded.
But at five the next morning, when I left the estate with a bag of leftover bread, I didn't notice the dark sedan waiting beyond the gates.
May you like
And I certainly didn't notice Luca Varela sitting in the back seat.
Watching me.
