FOURTEEN

YOUNG BIRDS

Mrs. Hall is a masterful actress. I see that now.

She puts up a good front at dinner, our first complete family gathering in a while. She flashes her white teeth at everyone while the kitchen staff sets down plates and platters, while the housekeepers draw all the curtains.

“Carina said the children did well in tutoring today,” Mrs. Hall tells her husband as she fusses with the purple and yellow flowers on the table. “Seems Luis reads above his grade level.”

“That’s good,” Mr. Hall replies, his tone controlled. “Very good.”

“And you?” Mrs. Hall adds, to Dante now. Her grin never falters. “Are you enjoying Wesley’s meal? He knows you love curry, and we haven’t had any in a long while.”

“It’s fine.” Short, almost annoyed.

Mrs. Hall is trying, she really is. When she’s stressed, she tends to hole up with a pot of tea in the sitting room. She’ll stay there for hours, won’t come out until she’s composed again. And her time in contemplation seems to have worked today. This is as close to housewife vibes as I’ve ever seen her. But I can’t get around the nausea sweeping through me, the strange tension in the room as I refill Luis’s glass with fresh juice.

And Mr. Hall is feeling it too. He’s reserved, mechanically shoveling forkfuls of curry chicken and white rice into his mouth. He and Dante are two moody peas in a pod. And for Dante, that’s normal, but Mr. Hall has been nothing but jolly and charming to me since I joined Blackbead. It’s unsettling.

Let’s think this through.

They’re definitely not happy about the Voice of Jamaica crap.

And then there’s Dante’s recent crisis: He held a town hall–type event at a local church, and from what I could gather, it sounds like Badrick crashed the affair. The guy wasn’t violent or aggressive, but the same can’t be said for some of his more ardent supporters. I don’t think Dante knew how to handle that as calmly as he should have, so everything escalated. Yelling, fighting, accusing. The situation became so unstable, Dante had to end his appearance early so he could get out safely. And all of it was caught on camera. The public might respect, or fear, Mr. Hall, but that doesn’t seem to extend to his son.

And the Halls don’t like to be embarrassed.

My napkin shifts on my lap. I want to figure this out, put the pieces together and pinpoint exactly what’s bothering everyone. But my mind’s busy. Why was Simone in Blackbead so late? Could she really have been meeting Mr. Hall? Right under his wife’s nose? It doesn’t make sense.

But some of it does.

What if Simone stayed behind after work and hunkered down in the servant passageways? In the evening, it’s the perfect hiding spot because there’s so little foot traffic.

And that man clearly planned to meet Simone. If they’re getting together in the middle of the night, they must have wanted to keep the meeting secret.

Mr. Hall couldn’t be cheating on his wife with a literal employee. Upright Simone wouldn’t put out for her boss, of all people. But I don’t know what else to think.

“My love, when are the contractors coming tomorrow?” Mrs. Hall asks.

Mr. Hall chews his food. I don’t know if he can taste it. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, will you check? I need the basement finished.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

It’s so awkward.

Maybe the weird mood and what I saw that night are more connected than I think. I need more information.

Except I know Simone isn’t going to offer it to me. She’s distant when we speak, and it feels like it’s purposeful on her part.

Imagine she’s been worried this whole time that I’d discover the truth and uncover her secret. She knows how to keep things from the other Young Birds. But I live in the house, work closely with Mr. and Mrs. Hall. If I knew something, I could ruin the both of them. In Simone’s mind, anyway.

Figuring this out could clear the air between us. Maybe I could prove that I’m not bent on spilling her personal life to the world. How could I tell on her when I’m keeping a dead girl’s phone under my bed? I just want Simone to be safe in whatever she’s doing. And, shit, if I’m wrong and she hates me regardless, she still needs someone to protect her.

I mix the golden curry and white rice in a corner of my plate, busying my hand. “Mr. Hall, you seem a bit tired.”

He nods like he’s a song playing at half speed. But still, he smiles at me. “Work never ends, Carina.”

“Must be stressful, right? Pulling all those late nights.”

Mr. Hall looks at me a little strangely, as if he’s considering what I’ve said, what I mean. Did he clock me already? He picks at his food. An oily yellow stain soaks into the white tablecloth in front of him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He won’t like being questioned. Maybe it’s stupid to put my employer under a microscope like this. What would stop him from kicking me out for insubordination? Or just for being nosy and annoying?

But I need to know if Simone is okay. That alone feels worth the risk.

“Just, the other night, I came downstairs after curfew because I needed a drink, and I thought I heard you going into your off—”

The table floods with liquid. Glass clinks against the surface. Dante’s water splashes everywhere. I jerk back, but some of his drink still spills on my pants.

“For the love of God, you don’t know how to hold a cup?” Mr. Hall spits. His wide nostrils flare. “Children know how to do it. Jada can do it.” Jada’s little body trembles at the sound of her name.

“Sorry,” Dante mumbles.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Mr. Hall says. “Apologize to everyone who has to clean up after you, mess after mess.” On cue, the servers swoop in, heads down, and begin moving dinnerware out of the way.

Mrs. Hall attends to her husband, speaks softly while stroking his face. “A breath, my love,” she says. She’s focused on calming him down. She almost seems relieved that he’s come alive. The kids keep their eyes on their laps.

I have to get them out of here.

“Luis, Jada, let’s get ready to sleep, okay?” I escort them from the room, weaving through staff as they zip around the cluttered table. The kids stick close. Upstairs, we can still hear Mr. Hall losing his head. I rush to clean up Jada and put her in her room—door closed tight.

Luis is quick to turn down for bed.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

He pulls his blanket over his head, stays buried until I leave.

I get it.

Even for the kid who never shuts up, it’s hard to know what to say. Before I leave, I make sure his night-light is on.

I check on Jada one more time before I go to my quarters. She’s barely visible in the dark, but when I get a step closer, it’s clear she’s wide-awake, thumb in her mouth. I sit on the edge of her mattress. “Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head.

“Was dinner scary?”

Her shadow hesitates. “Daddy gets mad sometimes.”

She says it so simply. It’s a fact of life to her, her whole five years of experience. Sometimes, her father snaps. Sometimes, she witnesses that rage.

“Mum says everybody gets angry, though.”

Sure. I know I do. But I’m not proud of how that anger comes out, the intensity of it, the way I sometimes can’t control it. That’s how innocent people get hurt.

I pat Jada’s cheek. “Everyone gets mad. But I’m sorry you saw that. That wasn’t kind.” I tuck her in again, then notice her stuffed elephant is missing. “Let me find Ellie, and then you’ll fall asleep easy, okay?”

“Thank you, Miss Rina.”

I look through all the usual places: the hallways, the playroom downstairs, the sunroom. I even poke my head into the library, because if there’s anywhere the kids shouldn’t be, they’ve probably been there at least once without me realizing. I steal into the reading room connected to the library, a cozy space with a dark-brown leather couch and matching armchair, a super-low coffee table, a few artsy-looking lamps. It’s one of the “family use only” rooms, so I’ve never been here. But it’s worth checking for Jada.

There’s one chunky stuffed elephant leg peeking out behind the couch.

Score.

And then people arguing.

Someone’s coming. Of course someone is coming. And of course I’m not supposed to be here.

I dive behind the couch and still my whole body. Grab the toy carefully. If I squeeze it too hard, I’ll trigger the sound chip, and they’ll find me.

The door creaks open, then shut.

“You and Patrick lied to me,” Dante seethes. “I spoke to him today, and I know he’s lying.”

“You question my integrity,” Mr. Hall replies, “and that of my board chair. I won’t tolerate this disrespect.”

I don’t think they’re arguing over spilled water anymore.

“I’ve known Mr. Clarke my entire life. I thought he was a good man. Now I see how he’s stomached being around you all these years. You’re the same. You move the same.” Heavy footsteps tread across the floor, make it vibrate. What if they walk over here? I curl into a ball, make sure I’m as close to the sofa as possible. I focus on the bookcase across from me, read the inscription on one of the shelves: Servitium et Honorem.

“Don’t speak on situations you don’t understand,” Mr. Hall warns.

“Or you’ll send Patrick after me?” There’s more passion in his voice than I’ve heard since the banquet. “Have him deal with me, like you have him deal with everything else you fuck up?”

Smack.

Flesh against flesh.

I freeze.

“Do not speak to me like we are equals. Do not speak.” There’s a whimper. “You have nerve, boy. Peed up the bed till age twelve, but turn twenty-four and suddenly grown enough to cuss me out, in my face.”

I grip Ellie’s ears. I can’t believe Mr. Hall fucking hit him.

“Want to act like a big man? Okay. But when you get hurt, you will realize that you are nothing. Just soft. Too opinionated for your own good.”

Dante sniffles.

“You think I’m hard on you? Try dealing with what I deal with. Your mother babies you. That’s why you stand here and cry when I put you in your place.” He sneers. “Grow up. Quickly.”

Silence. The slam of the door. More silence.

I wait behind the couch for several long minutes. Because I can’t handle another ambush. Because I don’t know if I can stand without my legs becoming jelly. Because that was crazy. What Mr. Hall did—what he’s capable of, how he spoke—is crazy, and I don’t want to get my ass beaten too. I’m heading back to Jada’s room, dropping off Ellie, and going to bed before anyone can catch me.

I finally get up.

But I’m not alone.

Dante’s in the middle of the reading room, half focused on nothing. He slowly notices me. The floor lamp highlights his left cheek, swollen from the blow of his father’s hand. A welt appears where Mr. Hall’s wide wedding band made contact.

I drop the toy. It hits the floor. Ellie’s hidden speaker plays a tinny giggle.

“I’m… I didn’t—”

Dante pivots and leaves. Shuts the door behind him.

He knows. That I overheard everything, that I have information I’m not supposed to have. He knows I was in a place I shouldn’t have been.

Ellie keeps laughing.

Like this is funny.

The next morning, I wait for Dante by his usual spot: the garden. The kids are inside with their tutor, and with how busy Dante is with his father’s campaign, this might be the sole opportunity I have to catch him. This is the second time he’s seen me blatantly come short of “Blackbead standards.” I don’t know what he’s thinking after last night.

And I need to know.

The ghost left me be. But nightmares found me anyway. I dreamed of loud insults and silent tears, insecurity posing as bravado. A father and son in a standoff with no clear winner.

Dad said growing up, he was the only son, and he had four younger sisters. Every day, his father gave the same refrain: “You have to be a man.” And that had a narrow definition. Play the appropriate sports, protect the girls, but don’t cry and be a little bitch like them.

Sometimes, Dad would fall out of that tiny box, and he’d be punished. A thump to the back of the head, forced push-ups, no dinner. “You need to learn,” his father said, “how to toughen up. That’s my job. To make sure you learn.”

Dad grew up and became a man. Dad also grew up to never lay a hand on me.

“I’m lucky I have a daughter,” Dad told me one night when I was up late, weeping, missing Joy and feeling guilty about missing her. He held me while I sobbed. Kissed the top of my head. “Don’t be tough. Stay soft.”

My mind plays back the tape. Mr. Hall—charming and composed, proud representative of friendly, welcoming Jamaica—striking his son across the face. Driving Dante to tears. Basically calling him a spineless pile of garbage.

Another father hurting another son and thinking they’ve done him a favor.

Just as I expected, Dante eventually rolls up, hands deep in the pockets of his slacks. His cheek is less swollen. He spies me right away.

But he doesn’t seem pissed. Doesn’t even seem surprised that I’m there.

“Sir, sorry to bother you,” I start. “I just wanted to address—”

“Last night was a disaster, I know.”

“Pardon?”

He ambles about, picks a leaf off the big mango tree. “No point in pretending. You see my face. Seemed to hear everything yesterday.” He crushes the leaf in his hand.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, sir. I mean that. I was there for Jada’s toy.”

He laughs, and it seems he laughs mostly to himself. “It’s a good thing you heard. I’m glad you saw a glimpse of who my father actually is. A true family man, isn’t he?”

I know not to answer that.

“What, do good fathers not hit their children?” he asks. “Do good fathers not value appearances over everything? Not insult the people they bring into the world?” Dante peers into the distance, past the cliffside edge of the property, to the mild rise and fall of the ocean.

“I’m sorry. For… whatever happened last night.” My words are tentative, meager. But I’m serious. As much as I’m trying to cover my ass, I want him to be okay too.

“Don’t be sorry. He’s being who he is. Who he’s always been.”

Dante doesn’t seem mad at all. At least not at me. Maybe he has no plan to terminate me or relinquish me to the au pair agency.

And maybe, just maybe, he trusts me. Just a little bit.

Just enough.

If I could get one of my bosses to see me as an ally, as someone who understands him, this could be key to staying at Blackbead and protecting myself. Just like that, I become valuable.

That’s a dangerous move. But it has to be the right one.

“At the banquet,” I say, “you said something similar. That your dad is sort of… not real.”

“The banquet was proof of everything wrong with my father. The excess, the fake kindness, the blind devotion.”

“But you work for him. And people believe Mr. Hall cares about the people in this parish, and in the country.”

“The only things my father cares about are this prison of a house and himself. What Ian Hall wants, he gets. Even when it’s immoral. Even when people get hurt, he—” Dante’s breath catches. His eyes dart across my face, searching for something.

Someone.

Trust me. Let me help you so you can help me.

The walls are down. “I’m listening… Dante.”

We share a look. Static covers his face. I can’t blink it away.

Then he sighs. “Get back to work, Miss Carter.”

Yeah. Back to work.

“Yes, sir.”

YOUNG BIRDS

Time might not heal all wounds, but maybe it dulls them.

The weekend came and went, and it brought some calm with it. The Halls started acting like levelheaded adults again. No violence, no insults. And that’s a relief because the staff has been jittery as hell. It’s been damn near psychologically distressing, what with everyone wondering if—or when—Mr. Hall might blow his top again. All the nervous cleaning has Blackbead gleaming.

So, no more yelling. Fortunately, no duppy nonsense. And Gregory has graduated from glowering at me for daring to exist in the same world as him. Now he just ignores me. A fragile peace.

Peace bolstered by the fact that, tonight, the Halls are away. I thought I would be too. Plans change.

The schedule said they were aiming for a six o’clock departure to some renowned charity gala, so I made the best use of my time. I dressed Jada in her preferred purple ensemble. Laid out Luis’s button-down and pants for him to put on himself. Then I ran to my quarters to make myself presentable according to “Blackbead standards.”

I could only leave Luis unsupervised for so long before he’d wreak havoc, so I slid into the white-and-gold banquet dress and pinned my braids into an updo I thought was acceptable—and pretty. I was still carrying one of my heels in my hand when I led the kids down to load into the car.

Mrs. Hall stopped me at the bottom of the staircase. Her sapphire-blue shawl draped across her shoulders and chest in an elegant sweep I could never replicate. “Carina, dear, a thought: you should enjoy a night off.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mrs. Hall gave this dewy-eyed look I couldn’t translate. “My husband and I were discussing our plans for this evening, and we realized we won’t be needing you tonight. You understand how these things go, yes?” She rested a hand on my shoulder. Her acrylics dug into my bare skin. “Please wipe down the children’s bathroom counter before you turn in.”

Stay here? Clean counters?

You understand how these things go.

I should. I didn’t. They needed me; they’d told me so. Luis was a handful by himself. Why not let the au pair deal with wrangling him and Jada?

But as I stood in front of the massive window, watching the BMW drive away, the puzzle pieces came together.

They wanted to look “normal.” A “normal” family. And most “normal” people don’t have live-in childcare following them everywhere. So if you want to seem relatable yet unattainable, well, drop the au pair and keep the Fendi.

I was an accessory best left at home. Yes, now I understand how these things go.

The physical space is probably a good idea. After Dante brushed me off, I don’t want to be around him anyway.

At least I have free rein of Blackbead for a few hours. And I have the Young Birds.

When we’re not forced to uphold the Halls’ appearances, we keep things simple. Like letting Wesley cook whatever he wants for dinner—and him letting us have the food since nobody’s going to tattle. He worked his magic with the brick jerk pit the Halls have in the backyard. “They never want use it,” Wesley said, disappointed. “Decoration for them. Don’t even like jerk. Can you believe?” So when Wesley lit the pimento wood, placed the grill grate atop the raised pit, and cooked his jerk chicken, he did it with glee.

We stuffed our faces. Josh moaned and rolled over once he was done.

Josh, Simone, Ora, and Aaron settle in the grass and covertly pass around a blunt. Simone doesn’t partake, scrunches her nose a little at the scent. She acts so proper. It’s hard to imagine she’s getting dicked down here at Blackbead, by Hall, shittiest man alive.

I might be weak on boys and booze, but I do resist the weed. A few weeks ago, I wanted nothing else than to smoke and get out of my own head. Now, I’m so mired in my thoughts, it’s not worth trying to escape them.

I wait for the duppy everywhere. In the shower, by the pool, with the kids while they’re getting tutored. It’s almost all I think about. When it’s coming back. What it wants. Who it might be. Who I pray it isn’t. I’m consumed by questions, by waiting.

I’m struggling to even keep up with the Young Birds chat. I’ve stopped knowing what to say. I don’t know how to fit in when there’s so much pushing me out. I’m not connecting like I once was.

But it’s still hard to sit with the group and not join the fun. I’m not strong like Simone. And honestly, I can barely look at her. So I stay by the jerk pit, walk around it to fight the sleepiness from a full belly. White smoke still rises from the pimento wood coal, twisting and twirling.

The longer I watch the haze, the more it seems to evolve. It becomes like a curtain or sheet, like I’m somehow viewing shadow puppets against a backdrop of embers.

This is a contact high or something.

The image quickly fills with details, and the smoke paints a scene. A semirealistic portrait. The impressions of a world.

A jutting cliff. Craggy rocks at the bottom.

A slim woman lying on the ground. Sprawled. Motionless.

Her skull crushed on one side.

My heart climbs into my throat.

Honeysuckle wafts around me. Something hot builds in my gut.

Her face is covered by long braids. Some strands splay across the stone. The vision blurs, distorts in the haze, but I make out the woman’s mouth, lips stretched wide as if midscream.

Body like mine. Braids like mine. Lips like mine.

I tremble and muscle back a cry.

She looks just like me.

I think she is me.

Crash!

“The hell?” Aaron asks.

I spin toward the house. A window splattered in crimson, cracked at the point of impact.

“Lord Jesus…” Simone goes.

On the ground lies a small bird. Blue feathers all over, with a shock of orange at its throat. Blood on the gray pavement, on its pocket-size body. Its head doesn’t appear the way it should.

One leg twitches. Still alive.

Gregory steps out of the guesthouse, probably hearing the commotion. He follows our gazes, catches sight of the bird writhing on the concrete patio. He paces toward it, evaluates the creature.

“Can you—” I start.

He snaps the bird’s neck before I can finish. Its crushed skull bobs at an unnatural angle.

Gregory collects its body and stalks away.

Acid burns my throat. I fight the urge to vomit.

“One smoke for the young bird,” Josh mutters before taking another hit of his blunt.

“Share,” Ora demands. “Now.”

The others fall back into conversation, though more subdued than before.

One smoke for the young bird.

Young bird. Crushed skull. The woman at the bottom of the cliff.

Aaron raises his eyebrow as if to ask why I don’t join the rest of the group. But I’m stuck.

I’m the only one who saw the smoke. The only one who saw that girl—saw myself—frozen in a moment of pain, of loss. I’m the only one who knows that young bird’s death was no accident.

It was a threat.

What am I supposed to do?

Do I risk Thomas’s office again, search for former Blackbead staff like I’d planned? But if Thomas caught me, he’d throw me out immediately. And if I run into Hall while he’s sneaking around with his secret lover? I could have his breakneck fury flipped on me.

If Thomas’s files are the one thread I have, and I won’t pull it, then I’m out of leads. Again.

So do I take my fixed passport and run to Panama? Will it still be in one piece by the time I reach the airport? If the duppy’s vandalized my stuff before, it could do it again.

I press the heels of my palms onto my eyelids. I sit, unmoving. If I move, I’ll scream. A few feet away, Ora cackles. Her voice grates my nerves, more than hearing Ellie the Elephant’s robotic laugh the other night.

Wait.

The other night.

The other night, I heard more than Ellie’s laugh. More than Hall’s outrage, more than his abuse.

I also heard a name. A name Dante uttered.

Patrick Clarke.

I’ve still got one thread left.

And I’m pulling it.