TWO

“Welcome to Blackbead House.”

Blackbead towers over us, a massive two-story mansion of bone-white stucco and coal-black shutters. A grand stone staircase leads to the front veranda, framed by columns. There’s a double garage attached at the side. The mansion’s lit from within, and there’s nothing but stillness behind the sheer curtains. Like the home’s blank eyes are staring back at me.

Nausea pulls at my stomach. I’m staying here?

Ora parks in the mansion’s long shadow at the bottom of the stairs, and I hop out of the car. Take everything in. All around the house, there are red-orange mangoes, spiny green soursop, and fresh limes on leafy branches. I grab my shoulder bag from the back seat. Ora yanks on my suitcase handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Rush, you got no sense,” hails a tense voice from the front door. Two young people—a guy and a girl—hurry down the steps. The girl waves at Ora to quit pulling at my luggage. “Let Scoob get it before you hurt yourself.”

Ora kisses her teeth, tugs harder. “I can do it, Juney.”

“Not an inch of muscle on your whole body, but you can do it? Unbelievable.” Juney takes note of my presence. Crosses her arms, looks me over. The slight sneer says she isn’t impressed by what she sees. She has a soft face, box braids, and she’s a little taller than I am. “Joy, yes?” she asks.

My eyebrow twitches. Ora’s right: the name doesn’t suit me. Never thought it fit Joy either, though. “Actually,” I start. And I stop. The words came easier when I spoke to Ora. But Ora didn’t seem as scrutinizing as Juney, that’s for sure. “I mean, I prefer Carina, if that’s cool. Middle name. Joy feels a little childish, maybe.”

“I see… Well, nice to meet you.” There’s a sharpness to her words that makes me think that’s not the case. She’s not sure about me, I guess. Can’t blame her, can I? “I’m Simone,” she says, pointing to her name tag. “I clean with Ora during the day.”

Juney’s her pet name, then. They all probably have one. So nobody should find it weird that I want to go by a different name too.

The guy, “Scoob,” nudges Ora out of the way and dislodges my suitcase with one pull. He grins at me, proud. “Call me Josh. You can find me in the kitchen anytime before six o’clock.” He lifts the hot-pink luggage with one hand. Almost everything I care about is in there, and it’s nothing for him to toss around. Says a lot about my life. “I’m strong, sharp, cook good—might shock you,” he continues. Each word is breezy, unserious.

“If you don’t hush and carry the bag before the Halls come home,” Ora scolds.

“What? Mad I don’t flirt with you?” he asks.

Ora pulls the keys out of her pocket and drops them in Simone’s hand.

“Now Juney can park the fancy car. Why? ’Cause you a dumbass.”

Josh just smirks. “Can’t be kind, no? Will let the Blackbead duppy deal with you then.” Ora smacks his shoulder before he hauls my suitcase up the steps, and Simone climbs into the BMW for a trip to the garage. Ora fusses with her earrings. Josh gets under her skin, and she can’t hide it. She’s an open book.

I miss when I could be like that.

“Sorry,” she says. “Simone and Josh are nice, but them love to vex me.”

“They’ll keep me on my toes.”

“Don’t encourage them.” Ora heads up the stairs, and I follow. “The family will be back soon for your welcome dinner.” Thank god I have time to change out of these clothes. “For now, I’ll take you ’round. Show you the real Blackbead.”

We reach the patio, decorated with classic black and cream furniture. Ora stands to one side of the ornate double doors, each decorated with an engraving of a massive tree, its overarching branches drooping with some kind of fruit. Etched onto a tiny plaque above the doorframe, the phrase Servitium et Honorem shines. Ora gestures me in. “Come.”

I step over the threshold. A fever flashes across my skin.

Blackbead suits its name.

I imagined color flaunted across every bedspread, rug, and tablecloth, like how Mom decorated our town house. That’s the stereotype, right? That we Jamaicans aren’t afraid to dress our homes in crimson and gold, to do it up with all-out patterns and designs that demand attention. But Blackbead’s all work and no play—black and white, wood and stone, silver and crystal. The grand foyer has clean lines, a circular staircase, and a sleek chandelier that gleams. The one thing that feels familiar? The antiseptic scent of Dettol burning my nose. The staff probably used it to clean the floors.

“Shit,” Ora says, “forgot to ask. What’s your number?” I rattle off the digits. “You got WhatsApp?”

“Why?”

“So I can add you to the group chat later.” Ora curls her lip, throws this “duh” look. “Just four of us—Simone, Josh, me, and Aaron. You make five. We call it the Young Birds.” She smiles with pride. “Now, let’s start the tour.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Williams.”

Ora and I spin around. There’s an older woman there, light skin contrasting with her black silk blouse and knee-length pencil skirt. She folds her hands in front of her, posture tall and long, like a ballerina’s. I’ve seen her photos online. There’d always be some asshole who questioned how she got her skin that color or why she refused to relax her hair. But otherwise, the comments were loaded with praise. All of it seemingly well deserved.

Turns out Ruth Hall is way more beautiful in person.

“You’re home early, Mrs. Hall,” Ora says, dipping into a curtsy despite wearing literal pum-pum shorts. I hike my messenger bag higher on my shoulder before joining Ora in a bow. I stare at my sneakers, focus on the scuffs near the toe.

“I had business to attend to at home and hoped to greet our newest guest,” Mrs. Hall replies, clear and steady. “Thank you for picking up Miss Carter on Thomas’s behalf. I will take it from here.” She holds her gaze on Ora for a second longer. “And please wear more appropriate clothes in the future, Miss Williams.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Ora quickly side-eyes me before scurrying through an almost invisible door that I didn’t notice before because it had been flush with the wall. Secret passageways? The surprises keep coming.

Now it’s just Mrs. Hall and me. What do I do without Ora to hold on to? I’m not ready. I haven’t gotten any serious info on the Halls from Ora yet. Haven’t had a chance to refresh my hair. Haven’t even changed out of these raggedy travel clothes like I wanted.

On stiletto heels, Mrs. Hall slowly pivots toward me. I smile, widen my eyes so I seem excited and ready to work. But it’s as if she’s already running calculations on me, whether I fit the picture she had in mind when she hired Joy. “I’ve already spoken with Mr. Green—Joshua—and had him deliver your luggage to your quarters. You’ll unpack before dinner. For now…” She clears her throat. “Follow me, please, Miss Carter.”

It’s like someone used Blackbead to smash past and present together—state-of-the-art speakers in the corner of a room covered in mahogany paneling, a shiny 4K television atop an ornate embroidered rug. We pass the formal living room, decked out with glass doors open to a manicured backyard, an in-ground pool, and a view of the turquoise-blue ocean beyond the property’s cliffs. Never thought I’d get the chance to live by the water, catch the waves as they come and go.

If Joy had come, she might have slowed down for once to notice everything here.

The kitchen’s bustling with folks quickly and quietly preparing for dinner. There are stainless steel appliances, and one of those big fridges with a touch screen, but they’re still using cast-iron dutch pots on the stovetop. A white candle sits in the windowsill, its flame burning. At the sound of Mrs. Hall’s clicking heels, everyone pauses, faces her, and bends at the waist.

“As you were,” Mrs. Hall says lightly. The staff returns to their work as we drift away from the busyness. A well-oiled machine that’s back on course.

I try to take in the sights of the house, but it’s impossible to catch it all. So I switch to the obvious things. Like how every wall has some massive mirror or prestigious award acknowledging the Halls’ contributions to the country. I even spy a stately portrait: two kids, a young man, an older couple—Mrs. Hall and her husband—each poised and proper.

A little royal family. The opposite of my own life.

My mom’s an aide on a school bus. Dad’s an accountant. Half my clothes are hand-me-downs from Joy. How can I fit into this? How can I stay in this?

If I keep it together, play it cool and polite, I’ll be in the clear. Then this fresh start is mine to have, and Joy’s gift to me doesn’t go to waste.

Simple. Easy.

Mrs. Hall escorts us into a sitting room, a darkened space illuminated by the remaining sunrays and some warm lamplight. She lowers herself into a plush armchair, and I sit on the velvet sofa across from her. It’s firm, like it’s never been used. Probably hasn’t been. Rich people seem to love useless, decorative furniture. I rest my bag on the floor. It topples in an awkward, loud clatter as my stuff shifts inside. My breath catches, holds. Clumsy. I feel clumsy compared to Mrs. Hall.

A young woman hurries in, balancing a silver tea tray. It’s Juney—Simone. She skillfully pours two teacups—doesn’t ask how I like my tea—and passes one to Mrs. Hall and the other to me. I keep the cup and saucer on my lap so nobody hears how badly I’m shaking.

I can do this. I can have a conversation. I can have a totally normal conversation without spooking this woman.

“Thank you, Simone,” says Mrs. Hall. Simone curtsies, deadass gives me the stink eye, and exits as quickly as she entered. Damn. She is really not feeling me.

Mrs. Hall exhales, like she can finally relax. “Now that we’re alone, we can truly talk. One-on-one. Tell me: Do you prefer Miss Carter or Joy?”

I swallow. “My middle name is fine, ma’am. I usually go by… Carina.”

“Really.” It’s not a question. “Thomas didn’t mention a name preference on your paperwork.”

“Probably just an oversight, ma’am.” Whether I’m suggesting it’s an oversight of mine or Thomas’s, I don’t say. But Mrs. Hall doesn’t say anything more either.

Pretty sure she hates me. Or doesn’t believe me. I should have let her call me whatever she wants. But it’ll be easier if I’m responding to my real name and not just the pretend one. I have to make this easier for me to pull off. I press my thumb against the rim of the saucer. Stay grounded.

Finally, Mrs. Hall offers a small grin. “Well, we don’t generally use nicknames, but you will be like family, and we want you to feel comfortable. So Carina it is.” That’s more grace than I expected. And that kicks my anxiety into overdrive. Understanding is foreign to me. I grip the teacup handle and force myself to take a sip. Not enough sugar. No milk. I hide my wince. “We’re happy to have you in our beautiful home for the next few weeks. My husband and I will be busy with election responsibilities, but we don’t want our children feeling neglected while we wait for our more permanent caretaker to arrive in late August. That’s where you come in.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hall.”

“Monday through Saturday, you will care for our two youngest children, Luis and Jada.” I set down my cup, try to subtly wipe my clammy palm on my sweatpants. My grungy, nondesigner sweatpants. Christ. “Between the hours of seven a.m. and eight p.m., we ask for your full attention—this means maintaining routines, overseeing productive play sessions, some light housekeeping.” Better that I’m here than Joy, then. The word routine would make her break into hives. “We will provide for all your needs, and as our au pair, you may freely enjoy most areas on the property. Sundays will usually be your own, but exact days off will depend on the scheduling of special events that may require your participation. Oh, and you will receive your salary every Friday.”

I don’t care about the schedule. I don’t even care about the money. I’ve got my foot in the door, and that’s enough.

“There’s more,” Mrs. Hall continues, “but you’ll learn all about Blackbead standards in due time. Enough of that. Please, tell me a bit more about yourself. I admit, I’m quite curious.” She puts down her teacup, peers at me with an eager, open face. “Your Cultural CareScapes profile said you were familiar with our… lifestyle. Is that right?”

Careful.

I hesitate, slow my words before I misspeak. “Yes, ma’am. My parents are blessed to be… comfortable.” Joy’s preferred response when I’d joke about her insane collection of luxury wristwatches she never wore. “And I was lucky to be raised in such favorable conditions. So I definitely understand.” I glance around the sitting room, and I hope my expression comes across as awe and respect rather than uncontrolled queasiness. “But I admit you and your husband have built something truly spectacular. Never seen anything like Blackbead. I’ll have to send my mother your decor tips.”

Mrs. Hall smiles demurely. “You flatter me, dear. Now, could you remind me of your experience with children?”

This is where my past can actually shine for once. Joy never had much experience. She applied for this position because she thought being a fill-in au pair for a couple months sounded fun. And her parents seemingly had no intention of taking her to Jamaica on their own; they never found it as enticing of a vacation spot as Aspen or Rome. Make that make sense.

But Joy knew the only person who wanted to visit Jamaica more than her was me.

“Well,” I say, “I’ve worked with children for years, babysitting privately. I also spent a year and a half monitoring kids at the local gym nursery.”

It’s not a sparkling résumé, but it’s something. And it’s the truth: easier to remember.

Mrs. Hall hums. “Our eldest son, Dante, is also dedicated to his mission. Right now, he’s deeply involved in his father’s reelection campaign, acting as our community outreach representative.” She gestures to a framed photo on the table beside her, a spotless picture of a straight-faced young man—the son in question, I guess. She rests her hand on top of the frame, as if patting the crown of Dante’s head. “He’s already preparing to follow in his father’s footsteps by connecting with the people of our parish so we can better serve them. It’s important work.”

“I can only imagine.”

“We want all of our children to use their time and abilities wisely. So it’s interesting,” she goes on, “that your parents would allow you to perform such… challenging labor. After all, you seem just as bright as my Dante.”

Damn. Does she think I’m lying about having money? Because I’ve had jobs before?

Time for the power of bullshit.

“That’s kind of you to say,” I reply. “I just… adore children. It’s not about the money, obviously, or how difficult the work might be. It’s about shaping and supporting young minds. That’s just so fulfilling and… and gratifying. And I really give my all to that. It’s so important to me.”

Bullshit so strong I can smell it.

Mrs. Hall places her teacup on the side table. “And we look forward to seeing that passion in action, Carina.”

Dodged that speed bump. Let’s avoid another, okay?

“I know these discussions can feel tedious,” she says, “but it’s important that I personally speak with everyone who works closely with us. Especially our caretakers.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hall. You’d want to protect your children most of all.”

“It’s hard to know the intentions of others when one is… of a certain status. I couldn’t tell you how many nannies we’ve had to report and let go because Dante discovered their misbehavior, their stealing, their lying.” Mrs. Hall chuckles to herself. “What am I saying? You know how these things go.”

Sure I do.

Wish I knew what happened to the last nanny, though. Did she get cut for the stealing or for the lying? Doesn’t matter. I keep my hands on my lap, where Mrs. Hall can see them.

Mrs. Hall rises from her seat, a queen vacating her throne. “Follow me, please. I’ll show you more of Blackbead House and bring you to your quarters. Oh, and leave your cup; Simone will handle it.”

She leads me back through the long corridors of the mansion. In one glimpse, a gorgeous glass coffee table that’s probably worth more than everything I own, closed doors to offices belonging to people more important than me. In another, a shady corner filled with paint cans, a balled-up tarp, and stacks of old newspapers featuring grayscale photos of Mr. Hall orating.

Blackbead is beautiful and midtransformation. Glamorous yet faded. Joy would hate it. Not enough bling, even with the chandelier. Not enough noise.

Mrs. Hall calls my name. “As discussed, you have free rein of most of Blackbead—the jerk pit in the backyard, for example, or the gym and theater in the basement.” I’m sorry, a movie theater? “However, some areas are reserved for family use only. That includes the offices on this floor, the reading room, as well as my husband’s and my bedroom. I also apologize for the mess. Renovations have been slow going.” Explains the paint and tarp. “Blackbead will be lovely again once everything is brand new, but this has taken some time. Unfortunately, we were unable to complete the basement au pair suite before your arrival. We’ve sectioned off our best guest suite upstairs for you in the meantime.”

Upstairs? So I don’t have to hole up in the basement? I’d gush but I don’t think Joy would gush about something like this. Upgrades in life were always expected. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Hall, thank you.”

“We give the best we can and we expect the best in return,” she replies.

There’s movement to our left as we pass the kitchen again. A tall guy with cornrows pulled back in a bun comes through the back door, maneuvers around the working staff, and pours himself a glass of water. He nearly overflows the cup when he sees Mrs. Hall with me in tow.

“Aaron, glad we caught you before end of day,” Mrs. Hall says. “Come, please.”

Ora mentioned an Aaron, didn’t she? Another Young Bird.

He jogs to us, looks over Mrs. Hall’s shoulder.

At me.

Mahogany skin. Sharp brown eyes. Full lips.

Mrs. Hall steps to the side. “Carina, meet Aaron Miller. He and our longtime gardener, Gregory Daley, share the guesthouse in the back and work across the property.” She pats his shoulder; there’s warmth in it. “Together, they keep Blackbead looking stunning with flowers and shrubs. It’s art.”

He doesn’t seem like someone in the business of making beautiful things.

He seems like trouble. For me.

Aaron bows his head low out of respect and maybe some shyness. “Just doing my job, ma’am.” His voice is rich, mellow. It stirs something familiar in my belly. I pretend I don’t feel it.

Aaron holds out his hand, and his calloused palm grasps mine. “Nice meeting you, Carina.” The warmth makes me linger.

Careful.

“You too.”

Aaron grabs his water and heads back outside. He takes a long sip; liquid drips down his chin, his neck, and darkens the collar of his gray shirt.

“Now, upstairs, please.” It’s the first time that I’ve wanted to rebel against Mrs. Hall. I don’t.

The portraits on the second level form a history of the Halls. The kids get bigger, the clothes get finer, the poses get stiffer. Mrs. Hall leads me to the far-east side of the floor and opens the door at the end of the corridor.

My new home.

The room is completely old-school compared to most of the house. Dark wood floors, wood dresser, wood bookshelf. Tall wood bed I can hide my lockbox underneath. Everything’s clean but dated, a reminder of what the house was like before. The Halls decorated the walls with different paintings and art prints—depictions of Jamaica brushed in greens and golds, sky blues and Scotch-bonnet reds. For a second, I miss the mini Polaroids I pasted on the walls by my bed back in New York. Candids of Joy, snapshots from our favorite diner, that shot of the Statue of Liberty from the one time we bothered to visit.

The lump in my throat swells.

There’s a scent on the air, strong and sweet. The smell of flowers and citrus. I can’t place it. Maybe it’s coming from the wood furniture. It all seems handmade and sturdy as hell. The aroma sends heat through me, though, a strange warmth that sits in my chest.

“Carina, a few more practical matters before you settle in,” Mrs. Hall begins. “While you are not required to wear a uniform like the rest of the staff, we do expect you to present yourself respectfully. That means—”

There.

Under Mrs. Hall’s speech.

A whisper so faint.

But Mrs. Hall doesn’t react to it. She drones on, quickly doling out bedtimes and sickness protocols.

The murmur is there, though.

Persistent.

Phrases I can’t make out.

Stress has me slipping. I cannot slip.

Be normal.

I dig my jagged nails into my palms. I focus as Mrs. Hall speaks, like her words are the center of my world. “The run-up to this election will be busy. For the next eight weeks, we will require excellence from every member of our staff. Excellence and discretion.”

Slowly—too slowly—the whisper falls back. The scent fades. My shoulders finally relax.

Mrs. Hall picks up a name tag pin from the vanity and holds it out to me. JOY in all caps. Mrs. Hall stands before me. “I’m sure this goes without saying, but we will require the utmost professionalism until all votes are in. Is that understood… Miss Carter?”

No drama. No foolishness. Or else.

I’ve had enough drama and foolishness for a lifetime. I don’t need any more.

I take the name tag. “Crystal clear, ma’am.”

She smiles. “Perfect. We’ll see you at seven for dinner. Do not be late.”

YOUNG BIRDS

Carina was added.

Everything depends on this welcome dinner.

Mrs. Hall seemed okay with me by the time she left my room, but there’s still the rest of the family. And if they hate me—don’t trust me, realize there’s something wrong about me—I’m done for. I don’t know what life after Blackbead will look like, if I’ll be ready to go home once this job is done. I wasn’t excited about community college, but the thought of not being able to go because I screwed up too badly here makes me sick. Imagine: no more restarts. Just confiscated belongings and a confusing phone call to my parents.

But if the Halls like me, I’m safe. I can stay.

After meeting the Young Birds, after touring some of this mansion… I want to stay. Everything with Joy fell into place so I could be here.

Standing around the corner from the formal dining room, I set down my oversized gift bag and try to hide the bra strap that peeks out from my too-big white dress. I wore this outfit for my cousin’s baptism last year. Now, it’s loose up top; I lost weight these last few weeks, and it shows. But most of my event clothes are minidresses and short shorts. This is, unfortunately, the prettiest thing I own.

Deep breath.

Don’t be like me tonight. Be like Joy. If I’m like Joy, then this will be easy. Everyone loves her. Socializing and charming people? Second nature. These are respectable folks. I can be respectable too.

The silver-and-black pendulum clock on the wall says it’s seven. No more hiding. I shake out my hands, pick up the bag, and enter the dining room.

Six pairs of eyes hone on me. They size me up, dress me down, take in my too-large outfit, my worn ballerina flats, my gold earrings and silver necklace.

I recognize the expression that crosses every adult’s face. I’ve seen it dozens of times.

Judgment.

An older man to my left blinks hard before he breaks from his freeze. He’s tall, suited up, real refined vibes.

Meanwhile, my bra’s showing.

“Miss Joy Carter, welcome to Blackbead House. I’m Thomas Allman, the house manager.” I reach out for a handshake, but instead, he swivels close, like he’s pulling me into a polite hug. He leans toward my ear. “Remember this, Miss Carter: being on time is being late. Do not make the Halls wait on you again. Yes?” I give a wobbly nod.

Oh, I’m cooked.

Thomas pulls away, glares at me for a split second, then gestures a sweeping arm toward the statuesque group standing across the dining room. “Please meet the Hall family.”

They each have a role.

Jada, the Baby: five years old, doe eyes like mine, lush twists with purple beads, thumb-sucker. I wave. She wiggles her four unused fingers back. Shy.

Luis, the Middle Child: nine years old, mischievous smirk with missing teeth and knobby knees. He wears Trouble’s face.

Dante, the Eldest: twenty-four according to online articles, tawny brown skin, low fade, lanky with rounded shoulders. He lifts his chin, stares down his nose like I’ve violated his peace with my presence. I fight the urge to shrink.

“And this is the Honorable Ian Hall and his wife, Ruth.”

The Halls match the grandeur of the room, the immensity of the entire estate. Straight backs, practiced presence, fine-spun clothes. His dark skin contrasts with her light tone. A king and queen, ruling with an iron fist from a modern-day palace. And with style too—Mrs. Hall changed into a striking white pantsuit, and Mr. Hall’s in a fitted sapphire-blue suit with white pinstripes. The clear gems on Mrs. Hall’s blood-red nails catch the overhead light. Mr. Hall’s Rolex calls me broke with each silent tick of the second hand.

They’re nothing like my parents. Dad’s super kind but hopelessly goofy. Family meals were never fancy, but he’d always do some cheesy song and dance while making everyone’s plates—“because y’all deserve dinner and a show.” Which, admittedly, was very cute. But I could never see Mr. Hall doing stuff like that; he seems more smooth and put together. Composed.

And Mrs. Hall is about as strict as Mom, but without all the volatility. Like, Mrs. Hall is stern because she has to protect her family. She has something to show for all the rules she has. But Mom? It’s like she tries to control everything so she feels better about how hard her life is. And what does she have to show for that?

A tired-looking town house, a stack of bills on the kitchen table, and one runaway daughter.

I pull my presents from the gift bag, kneel to the children’s level and offer the gifts like I’m Santa. A kid-size Superman cape for Luis, and a talking stuffed Ellie the Elephant for Jada. Hopefully, they enjoy the presents—and hopefully, so do their parents. I had a tight budget, a small suitcase, and two grainy candids of the children to study for clues about what they like. Their parents have these kids’ images on lock.

“Imagine if this were a Batman cape,” moans Luis.

“Ellie has big ears like Dante,” coos Jada.

“Focus, please,” Dante interrupts, rubbing a palm over his face.

“Our guest is here,” Mr. Hall adds. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, Miss Joy.”

Mr. Hall returns his gaze to me, and his eyebrows raise. Like he’s surprised to see me here. Then a switch flips, and Mr. Hall opens his arms wide. “Welcome to our happy home, Joy. You’ve come at the perfect time.” He motions to the dining table, filled with precisely placed silverware and dinner plates rimmed in red and gold.

Mr. Hall must be in his forties or fifties. He grins graciously with perfectly straight teeth, and I breathe. Just a little.

I give him my well-practiced babysitter face, beam at him like the sun shines out of my ass. “Mr. Hall, it’s an honor to be here. Happy to help any way I can.” I turn to Jada and Luis. “And you two can call me Carina, okay? That’s my special nickname, and you’re totally allowed to use it.”

“But that’s not your real name,” Luis murmurs. “Mama said no pet names.”

“It’s pretty, though,” Jada whispers to him.

“Just like yours,” I say. Jada’s eyes widen, like she’s surprised I heard her. Then she smiles. Cute kid.

“Well, Carina, your service during this time is more than appreciated,” Mr. Hall continues. He sounds genuine. It’s hard to imagine I’m doing this man—this family—any real favor. That they could actually need me when they already have so much.

But I really hope they do.

Luis runs to his mother’s side. “Mama, can we show Carina the playroom after dinner?” Jada says “please” over and over before Mrs. Hall quiets them each with a gentle touch on their heads. A gesture so normal but surprisingly tender.

Mrs. Hall twists her rose-gold bracelet, showing off more brilliant diamonds than I can count. She eyes me like she’s seeing me for the first time, reevaluating. “The children seem to like you already, Carina.” When she talks, it’s almost musical.

“Like I said, just good with kids,” I say. “Watched them all the time.”

Nobody needs to know I haven’t had the strength to care for anyone’s kids in weeks. Which sucked because I loved to do it.

But I can make up for lost time with Jada and Luis. I’m not the au pair they were supposed to have, but I can be the au pair they deserve. They’re probably like most children: they care about fun. Attention. Love.

I can provide all that.

“We look forward to witnessing your skills tomorrow,” Mrs. Hall says. She stares pointedly at the kids. They get the hint and deflate: they’ll have to wait and pester me in the morning.

Everyone finally takes their seats. Thomas hovers nearby as the head chef and two servers float around the dining room, a ballet of beautiful bone china and wine pours. Thomas pulls out my chair at the end of the long table, opposite Mr. Hall. “Before we enjoy this delicious meal,” Mr. Hall says. “A toast.” He raises a crystal glass, prompts the rest of the room to grab theirs. All those glasses reflecting light onto the walls, a glittering night in a glittering home. All these people who live without shame, without fear, without regret.

I want what they have. I want to be one of them.

“To Carina,” Mr. Hall calls out. “Welcome to the family.”

In that moment, I make a promise to myself.

The Halls are going to love me.

I’ve done it.

I crawl into the king-size canopy bed, sheets already turned down, and burrow myself beneath the covers. Egyptian cotton.

Tomorrow is my first real day. The Young Birds took me under their wing. The Halls seemed impressed. Even the kids were mostly nice.

I let my head sink into the pillow, finally release my grip on my new image as a responsible rich girl who can definitely be trusted with someone’s children. Everything is going well. Everything is working.

There’s a twinge of guilt about that, deep in my gut.

Do I deserve this opportunity, this cordial family, this cushy job?

No.

If I deserved it, I wouldn’t have had to do so much questionable shit to get it. Lying to people, adopting Joy’s name, racking up a laundry list of decisions I’m not proud of.

But it all had to be done.

Now, I have to prove that I can do right by this position and by this household. I’ll make myself deserving. Everything else is a distraction.

I click off the nightstand lamp. The room transforms into a void, the dark wood walls absorbing any moonlight. In the night, there’s the sound of my breath, the hum of the central air, the creak of the floor. A fly zooms by my head, its teeny wings buzzing in my ear.

Of course I can’t sleep.

The scent of honey fills my nose. The furniture still? Or maybe those flowers in the garden?

A shock of heat rushes over me. A familiar feeling. Shame, probably. The warmth lingers. Settles on my skin. Sweat beads across my brow.

It’ll take a few nights to get used to the island’s heat and stickiness. But no reason to suffer in the meantime. I climb out of bed and shuffle to a window, unlock it, and pull up to open.

It doesn’t budge.

I pull harder.

Nothing.

Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging. A fever seeps through my pajamas, through my skin, sinking deep into my muscles. Is it getting hotter? I suck in a deep breath. The air’s dense with some cloying scent.

Am I sick?

I run to my door, twist the knob, and step into the hallway, a single foot over the threshold.

Shivers from the chilly air bring goose bumps to my arms. My breath is still loud. The AC still hums. The floor still creaks under my weight. Not a single scream or yelp of concern. It’s not the house that’s on fire.

It’s only my room. It’s only me.

I close the door. Just like that, I’m enveloped by the swelter again. Locked in a furnace.

Is this what guilt does? Turns a person inside out, makes them suffer things that others don’t? My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Can’t breathe.

My fingers shake. It’s my nerves. I’m cracking.

What if Joy found me here, one night into taking her name, her history, her job—and already a wreck? She’d stand in the corner, mad as hell. And what would she say?

It’s like I almost see her. Arms crossed. Lips moving. No sound. But I don’t need to hear her to know how she feels.

The world darkens around the edges.

No.

I’m not ready to break. Not yet.

I lurch to the en suite bathroom. My hands slip as I grip the shower’s knob; I run the water ice cold.

And I throw myself into the stream.

A freezing spray pelts me, soaks through my clothes. My teeth chatter. I grit them together. A scream bubbles in my throat, and I don’t let it out. I stand there, whole body shaking.

Calm down.

I’m begging myself.

Breathe.

I climb out of the shower and spill to the tiled floor. Water leaks into the grout. And when I stop panting, I feel it. The air is brisk. Light. No more honey.

It’s over. I’m not a lost cause yet.

I stagger back to my bedroom, a line of damp footprints in my wake. Duck and peek beneath the bed. The coal-black lockbox sits, same as ever. The lid’s cold. Its contents protected.

That was close. Fear had me by the neck. A panic attack, maybe? Can I sleep this off?

I hold my breath. So does the room.

My guilt is real. My lies and worry are real, as real as everything hidden in the box.

But hidden means safe. And all I need to do?

Be careful.