At 5:58 the next morning, Carmine was waiting inside the front door.
He checked his watch.
Then he looked at Fay.
“You came back.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I lost eighty bucks.”
Fay blinked.
“The betting pool got bigger?”
“Way bigger.”
Mrs. Gable appeared from the hallway.
“Carmine.”
“What? She deserves to know she’s making history.”
Fay removed her coat.
“Does history come with overtime?”
Mrs. Gable almost smiled.
Something had changed.
Fay could feel it throughout the house.
Employees who had barely learned her name now watched her with curiosity. The cook gave her an extra blueberry muffin. A housekeeper named Elena whispered that Dominic had eaten dinner the previous night.
All of it.
That apparently had not happened in weeks.
Fay refused to take credit.
“He was hungry.”
Elena shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”
Maybe Fay didn’t.
She carried breakfast upstairs.
This time the curtains were already open.
Dominic sat beside the window in his wheelchair.
He wore a plain white T-shirt and black pants. Tattoos covered much of his left arm, intricate black patterns disappearing beneath the sleeve.
His hair was still damp from a shower.
Fay stopped.
“You opened the curtains.”
“I’m capable of opening curtains.”
“I was starting to wonder.”
Dominic looked at her.
“You’re becoming irritating.”
“Breakfast.”
She placed the tray on the table.
Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Coffee.
He examined it.
“No oatmeal?”
“I told the cook you declared war.”
A tiny movement touched the corner of his mouth.
It vanished so quickly Fay wondered if she imagined it.
She turned toward the bed.
“Physical therapist comes at ten,” Dominic said.
Fay looked back.
“How do you know?”
“I canceled him.”
“Then he isn’t coming.”
“I canceled him three months ago.”
Fay stared.
“Three months?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t done physical therapy in three months?”
His expression cooled.
“My medical treatment isn’t your concern.”
Fay picked up a discarded shirt.
“You made your medical treatment my concern when your leg nearly kicked me yesterday.”
“Spinal injuries are complicated.”
“I know.”
He looked at her sharply.
“How?”
“My mother worked in a nursing home.”
That was only part of it.
As a teenager, Fay had spent afternoons helping her mother with residents when staffing was short. She knew enough to recognize muscle spasms, pressure sores, transfer risks, and the dangerous hopelessness that came when people stopped participating in their own care.
She also knew enough to know she wasn’t a therapist.
“You need a professional.”
“I had professionals.”
“And?”
“They annoyed me.”
“Shocking.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
Fay continued making the bed.
“Call him.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
She carried laundry toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To clean.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“You just said your medical treatment wasn’t my concern.”
Dominic stared at her.
Fay stared back.
Finally he muttered, “His name is Dr. Hayes.”
“I’ll tell Mrs. Gable.”
“Fay.”
She paused.
“One appointment.”
“Sure.”
“If he irritates me, he leaves.”
“Sure.”
“And you don’t get to stand there looking smug.”
“I never look smug.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
She smiled.
That afternoon, Dr. Benjamin Hayes returned to the Corso estate for the first time in eleven weeks.
He was a patient man in his forties who clearly understood Dominic better than Dominic liked.
When he saw Fay, he whispered, “What did you threaten him with?”
“Oatmeal.”
Dr. Hayes laughed.
Dominic heard.
“I can still fire both of you.”
The session lasted twenty-seven minutes.
Dominic hated every second.
His upper body remained powerful, but movements that once would have been automatic now required assistance, planning, and patience.
Patience was the one muscle Dominic had never developed.
When he failed to shift his weight properly, he cursed.
When his right leg spasmed, he slammed his fist against the chair.
When Dr. Hayes suggested stopping, Dominic snapped, “I’m not weak.”
Fay, changing linens across the room, looked over.
“Nobody said you were.”
Dominic glared.
“You did with your face.”
“My face is folding a sheet.”
Dr. Hayes hid a smile.
Dominic completed another repetition.
Then another.
By the end, sweat soaked his shirt.
Fay handed him a towel.
He took it without thanking her.
But he didn’t throw it.
That counted as progress.
Days became a week.
The eviction notice disappeared from Fay’s pocket after Mrs. Gable handed her an envelope containing her wages.
Fay counted the bills twice in the staff bathroom.
Then she sat on the closed toilet and cried.
Not loudly.
Just enough to let the pressure out.
Rent.
Electricity.
Groceries.
Maybe she could finally replace the bald tire on the Honda.
Someone knocked.
Fay quickly wiped her face.
“Yes?”
“Boss wants you upstairs,” Carmine said.
“I’ll be there.”
There was a pause.
“You okay, kid?”
“Fine.”
Another pause.
“You know, in this house, ‘fine’ usually means somebody needs either a doctor or a shovel.”
Fay laughed despite herself.
“I’m okay.”
When she reached Dominic’s room, he was waiting.
“You cried.”
Fay stopped.
“How do you know?”
“Your eyes.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s what Carmine said you’d say.”
“Does everyone in this house gossip?”
“Yes.”
Dominic wheeled toward the desk.
A white envelope rested there.
He held it out.
Fay didn’t take it.
“What is that?”
“Money.”
“I can see that.”
“Your landlord.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What about him?”
“He’s been charging you illegal fees.”
Fay’s expression changed.
“You investigated him too?”
“I told you. I investigate everything.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have several. Most are illegal.”
She almost laughed.
Almost.
Dominic tapped the envelope.
“Take it.”
“No.”
“It’s not charity.”
“Then what is it?”
“A loan.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“Your car needs tires.”
Fay stared at him.
“You investigated my car?”
“It was making a sound when you arrived yesterday.”
“So now you’re a mechanic?”
“No. I own several garages.”
“Of course you do.”
She pushed the envelope back toward him.
“I got paid. I’m okay.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“Pride is expensive.”
“So is owing money to a mafia boss.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Dominic placed the envelope back on the desk.
“Fair.”
Fay turned away.
“Why are you helping me?”
“I’m not.”
“Dominic.”
His gaze shifted toward the window.
“You helped me when my leg spasmed.”
“That was my job.”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“It wasn’t.”
Fay had no answer.
The next several weeks changed them in ways neither acknowledged.
Dominic began attending therapy three times a week.
Fay learned how to assist safely under Dr. Hayes’s supervision.
She never treated Dominic as fragile.
If he dropped something, she didn’t automatically pick it up.
If he could reach something himself, she made him reach.
When he complained, she ignored him.
When he succeeded, she didn’t applaud.
Dominic appreciated that most of all.
He hated being celebrated for things that used to require no thought.
One afternoon, Dr. Hayes fitted braces around Dominic’s legs and positioned him between parallel bars.
Fay stood several feet away.
Dominic gripped the rails.
“Ready?” Hayes asked.
“No.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
With the therapist supporting his hips, Dominic pushed upward.
His arms shook.
His legs remained unreliable.
But for several seconds, Dominic Corso stood.
Not independently.
Not safely.
But upright.
Fay’s breath caught.
Dominic noticed.
“Don’t.”
She blinked.
“Don’t what?”
“Cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You are.”
“It’s allergies.”
“In November?”
“Very aggressive allergies.”
Dominic laughed.
It was the first time Fay heard it.
A real laugh.
Deep, surprised, almost rusty from disuse.
Everyone in the room froze.
Dominic himself seemed startled.
Then Fay started laughing too.
For perhaps thirty seconds, the third-floor room stopped being the prison where Dominic Corso had spent six months raging at the world.
It became simply a room.
But later that night, everything changed.
Fay had stayed late because a storm was moving in.
As she passed Dominic’s office, she heard voices.
Carmine.
And Dominic.
“The brakes didn’t fail,” Carmine said.
Fay stopped.
Silence.
Then Dominic answered.
“I know.”
“We got the mechanic’s report.”
“And?”
“The line was cut.”
Fay’s hand tightened around the laundry basket.
Carmine lowered his voice.
“Your accident wasn’t an accident, Dom.”
A long silence followed.
Then Dominic said something that made Fay’s blood run cold.
“Which means whoever put me in this chair is probably still inside this house.”