By the time the car turned off the main road and onto the private drive, my palms were damp against the faux leather of my portfolio.
The driver didn’t speak. The engine hummed, steady and expensive, as we moved through a tunnel of old oaks. Pale afternoon light filtered through the leaves in fractured stripes, strobing across my lap, my knuckles, the faint run in my tights I’d only noticed as I climbed into the car.
“Too late to fix it,” I murmured under my breath.
If the driver heard, he gave no sign. The Hale estate rose ahead of us, an expanse of stone and glass perched on the hill as if it had been planted there fully formed—a minimalist mansion with clean lines and sharp corners, reflecting the cloud-thick Seattle sky back at itself.
Ten thousand dollars a month, plus room and board.
I clung to that number the way some people clung to rosary beads.
The car rolled to a stop beneath a covered entrance. A metal sculpture of something abstract and sharp towered near the front steps, angled in such a way that it seemed to watch me as I stepped out. The air smelled like rain trapped in stone, cool and slightly metallic.
“Ms. Bennett,” the driver said. “They’re expecting you.”
They. Not he.
I straightened my blazer, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, and followed the polished path up to the front door. It was heavy, dark wood inset with frosted glass. No bell, just a discreet camera above the frame. I looked up at it, trying to smile in a way that said I’m normal, I’m competent, I’m not going to ruin anything.
The door opened before I could knock.
The man on the other side was not Adrian Hale.
He was lean, mid-forties maybe, in a black suit that fit like a threat. Dark hair cut close, a faint silver at his temples. His gaze swept over me, clinically efficient. The kind of look that made you want to check if you had spinach in your teeth and also whether your soul was showing.
“Ms. Bennett.” His voice was smooth, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m Marcus Cole. Head of security.”
Security. For a nanny interview.
I adjusted my grip on the portfolio. “Hi. Yes. Chloe. Thank you for—”
“This way.” He had already turned, expecting me to follow.
The foyer opened into a vast space of pale stone and glass. Everything was soft-gray, white, or black, punctuated by art that leaned toward geometric and unsettling. There was almost no sound—no television, no music, no echo of a child’s laughter. Just the whisper of our footsteps and the distant hiss of the rain against the windows.
A house that held its breath.
“You’ll be meeting Mr. Hale in his study,” Marcus said. “Before that, I’ll need your phone.”
I blinked. “My phone?”
He turned slightly, one eyebrow angling up. “No devices beyond the main level. Company policy.”
“Oh. Right.” I fumbled in my bag and handed it over, suddenly aware of how cheap the case looked, the corner cracked from that time I’d dropped it jogging to catch the bus.
He took it without comment and slid it into a slim black pouch that looked disturbingly like something evidence would go into. As he sealed it, I felt a ridiculous, irrational flicker of panic, as if he’d just zip-tied my only lifeline to the outside world.
