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“What are the scars from?” I lean back against my chair and observe her.
Her eyes narrow, and her fingers move rapidly over the keys on her phone screen as she writes a response.
How does that pertain to the job?
Her resistance amuses me on some level, mostly because I am not accustomed to it. A Society daughter would answer my question enthusiastically without delay. She is most certainly not a Society daughter.
“It pertains to the job because you’ll be working closely with my son. I need to know if you’re reckless or dangerous.”
Her brows draw together as if what I said bothers her in some way, but she answers me regardless.
They are from a car accident when I was a child. I was not driving. I’m sure you saw the records in the background check you performed.
“Indeed.” I allow my eyes to roam over her freely as the barista delivers her drink, interrupting us briefly. “I read your file, and I’m inclined to wonder how someone could manage to live such an ordinary life. Not a single parking ticket. No indiscretions to speak of on your school reports. No significant relationships in your life. It’s all so … unremarkable.”
She seems to understand I’m testing her, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Her eyes are clear, her pulse steady. When she writes her reply, there isn’t so much as a hint of deception on her features.
My life may not be remarkable, but it has served me well.
I find it an odd thing to say, and despite her assurances, I still can’t quell this strange feeling in my gut. There’s something peculiar about her. Something mysterious and secretive, and yet, something balancing. I find her honesty refreshing and her stillness even more so. Her inability to speak would serve my needs well, maintaining a quiet home and ensuring no secrets might accidentally spill from her lips, but would Nino like her?
I open the file before me, scanning the typewritten cover letter. She introduces herself as Natalia Cabrera, aged twenty-seven years, with a degree in early child development and education. She has experience in Montessori schooling and references from her time as a nanny. Under the list of her extensive skills, she notes that she is fluent in sign language and can learn and teach other languages as preferred. She is also certified in first aid and CPR. At the end of the cover letter, she notes that she has vocal cord paralysis from damage to the nerve. She makes a point to state that she is unable to speak verbally but can communicate with children through text-to-voice, writing, or teaching ASL if permitted. It all sounds well and good, but I am not certain how Nino might feel about this style of communication.
When I look up at her again, I catch her staring at the blood stain on my sleeve and the faintest hint of her pulse increasing. I wait a moment to see if she chooses to acknowledge it, but she doesn’t. I decide it’s better that way. I suspect some part of her already realizes this is not the typical business arrangement, and I want that cemented in her mind. If or when I allow her to enter my world, she won’t leave until I give her the option. That is if I give her the option.
“I’d like to do a second interview tomorrow.” I close the file. “I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
She shakes her head, typing out a quick reply.
I can make my own way.
I cock my head to the side. “That’s unlikely, considering it will be at an undisclosed location.”
I watch for any signs of fear, but she does not move. The only noticeable tightening is in the crease between her brows. If she were a smart woman, one who trusted any reasonable instinct, she would tell me no. But for once, I find that I don’t want a rational interaction. I want her to pass this test and every additional one I throw at her from now on. She returns to the app on her phone, her fingers moving elegantly as she writes her answer.
Very well. I’m staying at the Paramount Hotel.
“10 a.m.” I rise from my seat and peer down at her. “Don’t be late.”
3
Natalia
I step out into the cool New York morning, discreetly pausing to check my reflection in the glass behind me. The sun isn’t quite peeking through the clouds today, and it feels as overcast as my current mood. My black skirt suit is probably the nicest one I own, but somehow it still feels like a paper sack on my body. I’m a mess of nerves, but I am determined not to show it.
I can never show it.
With a mournful sigh, I decide that I look professional enough. But what does it matter? For all I know, this man could be luring me to my inevitable death. If I didn’t have everything riding on this interview, there’s no way I would have agreed to let his driver pick me up.
