In the kitchen, I notice a coffee ring on the otherwise pristine counter. Without thinking, I find a cloth and wipe it clean. Once I start, I can’t stop. I open cabinets until I find cleaning supplies and set to work on the already tidy kitchen.
Cleaning calms me. It’s familiar. Useful. I can control this small thing when everything else is beyond my control.
I scrub the counters, wipe down the cabinets, and organize the spice rack alphabetically. I hum under my breath as I work, a melody my mother used to sing. I barely remember her face anymore, but I remember that tune.
When the kitchen gleams, I move to the living room. Dust surfaces that don’t need dusting. Straighten objects that are already perfectly aligned.
A door off the main hallway stands partially open. I hesitate, then peek inside. A home office. Neat, organized, everything in its place. A large desk dominates the space, with a leather chair behind it.
I shouldn’t snoop. I know I shouldn’t.
But on the desk lies a stack of newspapers. That’s odd. I didn’t know anyone read newspapers anymore. I thought everyone learned about current events from TV or the internet.The headline of the top one catches my eye: “O’Rourke Family Suspected in South Side Warehouse Fire.”
I can’t help myself. I pick up the paper, scanning the article. It describes a fire that killed two men, both connected to a rival crime family. Police suspect arson. No evidence. No charges filed. Just suspicion that points directly to the O’Rourkes.
Beneath the newspapers is a framed photograph. Cillian is in an expensive suit, surrounded by equally hard-looking men. One resembles him enough to be a brother. The others have the cold eyes of people who’ve done terrible things and will do them again.
Reality crashes over me like ice water.
Men like Cillian O’Rourke don’t rescue broken girls out of kindness. They have angles. Motives.Usesfor people.
I set the paper down exactly where I found it and back out of the office, pulling the door to the same partially-open position. My pulse hammers in my throat.
I run into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, hoping it will clear my head. But when I get there and catch sight of myself in the mirror, I freeze.
The lighting is brutal and honest. The bruise on my cheek is turning a sickly yellow-purple. Dark circles shadow my eyes like I’ve been punched. My hair hangs limp, even though it’s clean. The t-shirt and jeans I’m wearing look as though they’ve been scavenged from the trash and hang on my too-thin frame.
I look exactly like what I am. A nobody girl from nowhere who has nothing—a peon temporarily placed in a palace where she doesn’t belong.
Why me? Why did Cillian O’Rourke take my father up on his offer?
I can’t figure it out, but I do know one thing. Nobody does something for nothing. Nobody.
I turn away from the mirror before the reflection can confirm all my worst thoughts about myself.
Back in the living room, I force myself to sit on the leather couch. It’s butter-soft under me—probably costs more than every piece of furniture I’ve ever owned combined. The cooking show is still on. I watch without really seeing as people create beautiful food with ingredients far out of my price range.
At some point, the voices blur together and my eyes drift closed.
The sound of the door opening jolts me awake.
I’m on my feet before I’m fully conscious, heart slamming against my ribs, ready to run or apologize or both.
It’s grown dark outside. I see a hint of the sparkling city skyline through the wall of windows. It must be late.
Cillian stands in the entryway holding white takeout containers. His eyes scan the room, taking in details I can’t see, before they land on me.
“You cleaned.” It’s not a question.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched your things—” The words trip over themselves as they rush out of my mouth.
“It’s fine. Thank you.” He moves to the kitchen and sets the containers on the counter. “You didn’t have to.”
Thank you. The words hit wrong—or right, I don’t know which. When was the last time I was thanked for anything?
I can’t remember.
He opens the containers and my stomach growls loud enough that I’m sure he hears it. My face burns.
