This apartment is too perfect, too polished. The sheets are stiff and unused. They smell like fancy detergent, and even though I’m sure the thread count is higher than my salary, I miss my jersey sheets. The worst part is not knowing how long I’ll be trapped in this place. It hasn’t even been twelve hours, and I’m already mourning my life.
I get up and pace the room without even realizing I’m moving. I pace from the window to the door and back again. My footsteps echo. My mind won’t settle. There is a hum under my skin, restless and sharp, as if my body is reminding me that I should be home getting ready for work. It’s maddening.
Worse, I keep pressing my palm to my stomach without realizing it. The tiny life inside me is only the faintest promise, nothing visible, nothing I can feel yet. But I know. I know in a way that sits deep and warm and secret inside my chest.
There is no way I’m going to tell him now. Maybe not ever. I knew he was dangerous, but last night proved that there’s something much more sinister going on. He had men following me, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t even tell him my name, so he must have used my phone number to track me down. Who does that?
Dangerous people. That’s who.
As soon as I finish breakfast in the enormous kitchen, I grab my bag and tell myself that no man is going to stop me from living my life. I will go to work. I will teach my kids. I will return to the life I built for myself long before Samuil existed in my orbit. Today will be normal.
Except nothing is normal anymore.
Samuil comes into the kitchen just as I’m pouring tea into a tumbler. I feel him before I see him, his presence so commanding and weighty.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asks, curious.
When I turn to face him, narrowed eyes stare back.
“Yes,” I answer simply. “I’m going to work.”
“Molly—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that everything can be negotiated,” I say in a rush, letting out the speech I’ve been practicing in my head all morning. “So, here’s my counteroffer. I will stay here. I will let your goons follow me. But Iamgoing to work.”
“That’s not negotiable,” he says firmly. I cross my arms and scowl at him, seeing his armor already cracking.
“I can’t just not show up,” I tell him. “They’ll fire me.”
“You’ll find another job,” he says.
“I don’t want another job,” I argue. “I love my job. I love my kids. So you will let me do this my way, and I won’t make your life hell for the foreseeable future.”
He lets out a breath and assesses me slowly. He’s probably wondering exactly how serious I am about that threat.
“You can go today,” he finally says. “But if anything happens, we’re trying it my way. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree enthusiastically, reaching out my hand to shake.
He snorts as he takes it and gives it one firm shake.
“I need to go make some phone calls,” he says vaguely, disappearing back down the hallway.
By the time I reach the lobby, two men are standing by the door pretending to read newspapers. They give me a small nod. I ignore them and push forward, determined not to be intimidated by shadowy guardians who now apparently trail me everywhere I go. When I reach the school, there are two new custodians mopping the floor in the hallway outside my classroom. They nod too, with the same stiff acknowledgment, the same eyes watching every person who walks by.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize Samuil has hired them. That’s probably the phone call he made. He probably extorted someone on the board to authorize non-district personnel in the building. They’re not fooling anyone. They don’t even carry the little walkie-talkies real custodians have clipped to their belts.
I inhale deeply to keep myself from snapping.
I can do this. I can teach. I can be normal.
For the first half of the day, I almost convince myself it’s working. My students are talkative and loud, but they’re always that way. They ask questions about the math worksheet and argue about whose turn it is to clean the whiteboard. They seem perfectly themselves, with no clue about the storm that’s brewing in my life. They make me feel like myself.
Then comes recess, and as I’m leading them outside, one of the “custodians” stops me for a chat.
“It’s not safe for you to be outside,” he murmurs, his voice low. “It’s harder for us to protect you out there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hiss. “I have to take my kids out for recess.”
