Nothing like the weak, watered-down coffee we had at the Sanctuary on special occasions.
"Mr. Sutherland will be down shortly," Mrs. Silva says.
"How long have you worked for him?" I ask.
She glances at me, surprised by the question I guess.
"Thirty years," she says. "I worked for his father before him. Started when Vaughn was six years old."
Thirty years.
"You've known him his whole life."
"Most of it, yes."
"What's he like?"
She's quiet for a moment, plating eggs carefully.
"He's a good employer," she says finally. "Fair. Generous. He takes care of the people who work for him."
That's not what I asked.
"But what's he like?" I press. "As a person?"
"That's not my place to say, dear."
"You've known him for thirty years."
"Which is why I know it's not my place."
Translation: she won't help me. Won't give me information I could use.
She's loyal to him.
Of course she is.
Footsteps in the hall.
Vaughn appears in the doorway.
He's showered. Changed. Dark slacks. White shirt. No tie. He looks fresh. Rested.
Like he didn't spend half the night waiting to catch me trying to escape.
"Good morning," he says.
I don't respond.
He sits across from me at the island. Mrs. Silva sets a plate in front of him. Pours him coffee.
"Thank you, Beatriz," he says.
Beatriz. Mrs. Silva has a first name.
They eat in silence while I pick at my food.
It's good. Better than good.
