SIX

I need to go home.

Crickets chirp, their song surrounding me as I sit on the curb outside the bar. It’s humid as hell. Mosquitoes eat me up, and their bites swell across my legs and arms. Under the green-tinged lights, they look disgusting.

I want to slide into my room, wash my face, and put the night behind me so I can forget every awkward, screwy thing from the last hour.

“Hey,” someone says. Low voice, a bit hoarse. Josh, maybe, finally done raging about work. “What you need?”

Water. A ride home. Clothes that fit. A time machine. Some common fucking sense.

“Honestly?” I ask. “Chicken nuggets and fries. From Burger King.”

He laughs, and the sound would knock me on my ass if I weren’t already sitting. That’s not Josh. It’s Aaron. No, not now. Anyone but him. “You Jamaican, come live in Jamaica, then ask for Burger King?” And despite myself, I laugh too. Hysterically. It feels good to get a break from my own drama.

“I’m not making any sense,” I sputter as I wipe away tears.

He stands over me, his profile dipped in shadow. “Come. Ora ask me to take you home.”

“Ora did?”

“Them three sober up and help Leon close shop. But I’m good to drive. And you… look a little rough. The Halls them have rules about staff drinking. Hope they don’t catch you.”

I try to track Aaron’s face in the dark. Ora seemed serious about him. She’s a firework, but talking about Aaron made her so soft—like candlelight. I don’t want to get in the way of them, don’t want to put a single concern in Ora’s mind. So how would it look if she saw us leaving together?

A headache blooms in my temples. But if Ora told Aaron to help me… maybe it’s fine. Maybe she’d rather I get home safe, even if that means getting a ride from the guy she’s into. The idea that people could be nice to me simply to be nice is clearly hard for me to imagine.

Okay. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’re done.

I investigate the near-vacant lot. “Which car’s yours?”

He points to a spot near the bar’s entrance, and I follow his finger.

That’s not a car.

That’s a motorcycle. A reflective little two-wheeler in blue and black.

My lungs hitch. “Nope. Not going anywhere near that.” I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before. Sure, I’ve always wanted to, but this feels like the wrong time to try.

“You have another way?” he asks. “We already headed the same place.”

He’s not wrong… I stand, surrender. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Aaron leads me to his bike and helps me onto the rear seat. He fits his helmet onto my head. His fingers brush the underside of my chin as he clicks the clasp into place.

“What about you?” I ask.

“Hard-headed. Don’t worry ’bout me.”

Aaron hops into the front, pulls my arms around his waist. “Hold tight. Like life or death.”

I’ve lost my mind. I really latch on. “Life or death.”

We roll away from the rum bar.

And then comes the terror.

My heart’s in my throat. The few streetlights we pass zip by in a blur. My braids fly behind me as we speed through the sultry Caribbean night. I can’t breathe as the wind hits my cheeks, pulls tears from my eyes. I can’t think while the bike rumbles down these long, half-lit roads. I hold on to Aaron tighter, wonder when we’ll topple in some catastrophic crash.

“You’re okay,” Aaron tells me, raising his voice over the roaring engine. “You’re safe.”

And then the panic lets up. Just a little. And underneath that is this feeling like maybe he’s right. That the adrenaline rushing through me isn’t an omen saying that I’m at death’s door.

It’s proof that there’s still blood running through my veins.

I whoop into the night air and hear myself echo.

I lean into the warmth of Aaron’s body, the softness of his shirt. I catch his scent—a bit of mint, a bit of rum, a lot of him.

Temptation still calls to me, and I hate that I want to answer.

Minutes later, we pull into Blackbead’s driveway, right up to the staff’s side entrance. A few feet away, the veranda lights illuminate the front of the house.

“This your stop, Bambi.”

I know. But once I let go of him, I let go of this moment. Letting go is impossible.

But I should. So I do.

I free Aaron from my grip and hop off the rear seat. Unclasp the helmet myself. “Thanks for the ride, Chicken.” I hand the helmet to him, and he grabs it. We hold it between us.

His eyes meet mine. Then they travel down—to my lips. And back up. A stare that consumes me, roots me in place.

Walk away.

“Night,” I say.

“Be careful.”

And I run into the house, closing the door behind me.

I pray the dark hid my flushed face.

I pray the dark remembers this moment that will never happen again.

Apparently, the cost of that motorcycle ride was one of my earrings. Guess nothing comes free.

I tiptoe into my bedroom, quietly close the door behind me so nobody in the Halls’ wing hears me—shit, so Blackbead itself doesn’t hear me scuttling around like a shameful, drunk crab. And right when the door clicks shut, I get that feeling again, like I did on my first day here. That warmth in my chest, down my backbone. A spike of nausea.

Maybe the alcohol. But probably the guilt. For spending time with Aaron. For liking him in the first place. Maybe I’m lucky that my one punishment for that is an upset stomach and a lost earring.

My limbs feel too heavy to move. But I still shuffle to the bathroom, desperate to splash cool water on my face and scrub away some of the bar grime. I flick on the light.

On the mirror.

Deep red marks.

The face of a bull, horns sharply drawn.

And a word—Run—scrawled across the glass.

Run.

Someone’s been here.

“What the fuck?” I hear my own voice, louder than I mean it to be. Is this blood? Can’t stand blood. I retch. Did someone on the staff do this? Shit, maybe the Young Birds lured me out for the night on purpose. I mumble—“no no no no no”—and my breath comes too quick.

Even freaked out and disgusted, I don’t hesitate. All of this needs to go. I scramble to wipe everything off the mirror. Bottles tumble from the counter and crash against the floor. The bull’s snout smears under my fingertips.

Lipstick. In Ora’s usual shade.

Could it be her? But that doesn’t make sense. She was with me all night, and she wouldn’t do something like this anyway. And I didn’t know about her and Aaron until an hour or two ago.

I search the shadowy alcoves of the bedroom, hunt for the outline of an intruder in the sweeping window curtains. My muscles tense, like I’m ready to sprint.

A thought staggers into my brain, and I can’t unthink it. What if somebody here knows the truth?

It’s almost impossible. I’ve been careful. I’ve put on the performance of a lifetime since I landed in Jamaica. Covered my tracks by deactivating my social media, wiping all my profile pics, even switching to fake names so nobody can search for me. Hardly anyone knew about Joy’s work assignment, and nobody could know I took over her job. My own parents have no clue.

But…

I think of the lockbox. Unassuming black steel holding half my secrets. I imagine a key shoved into the lock, the lid thrown back, everything within uncovered.

What if?

What if someone here knows the truth about me?

Outside my room—footsteps.

But nobody sleeps on my side of the house.

Careful.

There’s a sharp knock.

“Hello?” I hear myself again, scared this time.

I close the bathroom door and whirl around to face whoever comes.

It’s Dante.

He stands in the threshold, irritated. He’s in a navy polo and dress pants, his face warped into a scowl. Like having to check on “the help” is the biggest disruption from his golden life. “Problem?” he asks.

This is the first time we’ve ever spoken, and I’m fighting the urge to puke. Aaron warned me to not get caught. But here I am, drunk, covered in someone’s red lipstick, with an earring missing. Days into building trust with these people, and I’m blowing it up. I clear my throat, try not to look at Dante directly.

“Well?”

I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I don’t need Dante involved. I glance at the bed, where I hope the box still rests underneath. Just need Dante to leave so I can think, so I can check.

“I am so sorry, sir,” I start. “I didn’t mean to… to bother you.” Get it together. I swipe my tongue over my cracked bottom lip. “No problems here. Just a little… I got startled by a… lizard… sir.”

Dante’s eyes hold on my face. My cheeks warm. That judgment again. My mind imagines Dante evaluating me with equal parts revulsion and disdain. Now, a vision of Dante taking detailed, handwritten notes about me and every infraction I’ve broken just tonight. Then, Dante telling his parents that the new au pair is ghetto and untrustworthy and needs to be terminated immediately.

Then everything else coming out. The fake papers, the stolen IDs.

Do not call the agency. Please.

He takes one step into my room. Pauses. My spine’s stiff.

Run.

Run.

Finally, Dante says: “This is your one pass. To bed, please, Miss Carter.”

“Yes. So sorry, sir. Good night.” He idles for a moment longer before leaving. I listen as his footsteps fade away.

Then silence.

Blackbead is silent.

I bolt for the bed.

The box is still there, lock intact.

My body goes slack; my knees wobble.

That honey-sweet scent hits my nose.

I vomit in the toilet.