Chapter 7
ELLIE
I know the exact time because I’ve been staring at my phone since I got home from the interview three hours ago, the screen propped against my pillow while I lie on my bed in the outfit I haven’t taken off.
The phone lights up. New email. The sender line reads: Whitmore Staffing Agency — Application Update.
I open it.
Dear Miss Calloway,
Thank you for your interest in the position of Private Tutor with our client. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that the family has selected another candidate whose qualifications are more closely aligned with their requirements at this time.
We appreciate your time and wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Regards,
Whitmore Staffing Agency
I read it.
Read it again .
A third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves if I give them enough attention.
We regret to inform you.
Another candidate.
More closely aligned.
I set the phone face down on the mattress and stare at the ceiling.
I don’t cry.
Not yet.
Not because I’m strong, but because I’m spiraling.
Payment to Landon: $5,040 with the new adjustment. Due in seven days.
Checking account: $47.
Savings: $0.
Employment: none.
Prospects: none.
Assets: none.
I sold the car, the gold necklace my mother left when she walked out. I sold the college textbooks I’d been keeping because they had my notes in the margins.
All gone.
Seven days. Five thousand and forty dollars. Forty-seven dollars in my account.
I roll onto my side, pull the pillow over my head, and press it against my ears.
$478,540.
Minus nothing. Plus interest. Plus the adjustment. Plus the cost of being alive — rent, food, bus fare, the minimum caloric intake required to keep a human body functioning.
My phone buzzes under the pillow. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
I pull it out. Three messages from Maren.
MARE
How did it go??
El???
If you don’t answer me in 10 minutes, I’m driving over there.
My stomach drops. She doesn’t deserve to be saddled with any more bad news from me. But she also doesn’t deserve to be lied to or ignored.
I type back.
Didn’t get it.
Her response is immediate.
MARE
Oh El. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?
I’m fine.
MARE
You’re not fine. Let me come over.
I’m fine, Mare. Really. Just tired. Going to sleep early.
This time, she takes a second to respond.
MARE
I love you. Call me tomorrow. Promise.
Promise.
I put the phone down.
There’s no way I’m going to sleep early. Instead, I’ll lie here and stare at the ceiling, running the numbers until they eat me alive, because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done .
My father counted cards; I count catastrophes. And neither of us ever learned when to stop.
I sink into my self-pity. The apartment is so dark. I haven’t turned on the lights out of fear of the electric bill due next week.
The street outside is mostly quiet. The streetlight on the corner is working tonight, gently buzzing away. Its orange glow creeps through the window, throwing shadows on the wall.
My chest aches behind my sternum.
Another candidate. More closely aligned.
I close my eyes and press my palms flat against the mattress, feeling the springs buried within. Cheap, sagging, the imprint of my body worn into the center like a grave.
Then, without permission, I think of Landon.
Six months ago, he showed back up in my life and laid it bare.
Come back to me. Move in. The debt restructures — zero interest, reduced payments. All you have to do is be there. Be mine. It’s not complicated, Ellie.
He was right. It wasn’t complicated. I said no every time.
But every time, the no gets harder, because the alternative gets worse. And tonight, it feels like a door that’s getting smaller, and I’m not sure how many more times I can fit through it.
With self-loathing coursing through my veins, I pick up my phone and open the contacts, scrolling to L.
Landon Webb. I don’t even know if it’s still his number. He changes it every now and then. My thumb hovers over the call button.
One tap. That’s all it would take.
One tap and the voice on the other end would be warm and patient. Victorious. The debt would be restructured, and the payments would shrink. The wolves would retreat, and I would be safe… for a little longer, at least .
My thumb shakes.
I think about my dad. The last time I saw him alive, he was sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in his arms and that ruined, apologetic look on his face .
He held my hand and said, Don’t let anyone own you, Ellie-bell. Not even me.
He said that. The man who sold me to a predator said don’t let anyone own you.
I put the phone down.
Not tonight. Not yet. Not while there’s still a door, no matter how small.
The text arrives at 10:52 p.m.
I’m not asleep. I’m in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator in my underwear and my flannel shirt, eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon.
My phone lights up on the counter. Unknown number. Chicago area code. I frown and tap to open the notification.
UNKNOWN
Miss Calloway, this is a representative of the Belov household.
We are pleased to inform you that after further review, you have been selected for the position of private tutor.
Please confirm your acceptance at your earliest convenience.
Move-in is scheduled for tomorrow (Saturday).
You will have Sunday to settle in and receive orientation. Work begins Monday.
The spoon clatters to the floor.
“No fucking way…”
I snatch up the phone, shocked to my core.
Did I fall asleep? Is this a dream ?
I have to read it three times because my hands are shaking and the words keep swimming.
You have been selected.
But the email. The rejection. Another candidate whose qualifications are more closely aligned. That was four hours ago. Four hours ago.
Could it be a mistake? A glitch? The agency’s automated system firing off a rejection before the family’s decision was final?
Does it matter?
Does it matter why, if the answer is yes?
My thumbs fire off the response before my brain finishes processing:
Thank you. I accept. I’ll be ready tomorrow. What time should I arrive?
The reply comes in under a minute:
UNKNOWN
A car will be sent to your address at 10:00 a.m. Pack for an extended stay. Further details will be provided upon arrival.
I set the phone back on the counter like it’s the most precious item in the universe.
My body is coming apart at the seams. Every cell in me is vibrating. I press my hands flat against the laminate and bend forward, taking deep, shaking breaths.
I can’t believe this is happening. It’s completely overwhelming.
Relief. Terror. Relief. Both at the same time. Both true. Both real.
I was going to call him. Twenty minutes ago, I was going to call Landon.
The horror of it hits me like a truck .
Now there’s another way.
Branches of light grow in the dark pit of my stomach.
My first thought is to call Maren. I owe her a piece of this joy.
She answers on the second ring.
“I got it,” I say before she gets the chance to say hello.
My voice is high-pitched and squeaky. Hardly my own. But I’ll take it.
“What?”
“The job. They changed their mind. Or the other person dropped out. I don’t know. Either way, I got it. I’m moving in tomorrow.”
A half-scream, half-laugh echoes through the phone.
I hold it away from my ear and grin. For a moment, an emotion blooms that I almost don’t recognize.
Hope.
Tiny. Fragile. Already bracing for impact.
But it’s there.
Maren arrives at seven the next morning.
She lets herself in with the spare key and finds me standing in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by everything I own, which, when you lay it all out, is not much.
“Okay,” she says, setting down two coffees and a bag from the bakery on the corner. “Let’s do this.”
We pack in two hours.
Clothes, which consist of my meager work-appropriate outfits, casual pieces, and the old BU sweatshirt I refuse to throw away.
Toiletries. A few books. The portfolio of lesson plans.
My dad’s flannel shirt, folded carefully at the bottom of the suitcase where it won’t get wrinkled.
Rather, where it won’t get more wrinkled .
One suitcase. One bag. That’s my life, compressed into two containers that I could carry onto a bus.
“I’m keeping the apartment,” I tell Maren while she sits on the suitcase to help me zip it.
“Smart. In case?—”
“In case it doesn’t work out. In case they fire me. In case I need somewhere to run.” The word slips out before I can catch it. Run. Not return. Not come back to. Run.
Maren immediately picks up on it.
“Ellie. Do you feel safe about this?”
The thorny vines that have wrapped around my pulsing hope tighten.
“I feel like it’s the best option I have.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I fold a sweater. Then unfold it.
“The house is... intense,” I try to explain. “The security, the staff, the… everything. It’s not like any job I’ve ever had. It feels more like entering a system. Like once you’re inside, the system runs you.”
“And?”
“And I need the system to run me right now, Mare. Because I’m not doing a great job of running myself.”
She’s quiet. She finishes zipping the suitcase with a final, decisive tug, and then she stands and puts her hands on my shoulders.
“Call me every day.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And if anything feels even remotely wrong, Ellie — you call me, and you leave. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a lesson. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. Call me.”
“I promise.”
“And take this.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a fold of bills. Cash. I see the denominations — twenties, fifties. There’s at least three hundred dollars .
“Maren—”
“Emergency fund. Hide it somewhere they can’t find it. Not in your wallet, not in your purse. In a shoe, in a book, in the lining of your coat. Money you can grab if you need to leave fast.”
She’s not being dramatic. Maren Lavelle is the most level-headed person I’ve ever known. She doesn’t do dramatic. She does prepared .
“You think I’ll need to leave fast?”
“I think you’re moving into a stranger’s house in a gated compound with armed security, and you don’t know why a man who makes that kind of money needs that kind of protection, and I think you should have exit money that nobody knows about.”
She holds out the cash like it’s the only option.
So, I do the polite thing and take it, folding it into the inner pocket of the suitcase.
“Thank you,” I whisper, tears welling.
“You got this, El.”
We hug, and she holds on to me longer than usual.