The dining room at the Crawford estate had a chandelier shaped like a wave, frozen mid-crash. Thirty guests sat under it, wine glasses catching the light, and I knelt on the Persian rug at the head of the table like this was just another course being served.
"Say it," Caspian said. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his scotch.
I kept my eyes on the rug's pattern. Red thread, gold thread, a border of vines that didn't go anywhere. "I'm requesting renewal of ventilator funding for Tanner Sullivan," I said. My voice didn't shake. I'd practiced not shaking.
Someone at the table laughed softly into a napkin.
"Louder," Caspian said. "Some of our guests didn't hear you."
I said it again. Louder. The words tasted like metal.
He stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. He'd had four glasses that I'd counted, and something else besides — something looser in his shoulders, something wrong in his eyes. He walked to the study door, disappeared, and came back holding a wooden box I recognized. Sealed once. Not anymore.
He opened it in front of everyone. Pulled out a jacket, navy and gold, the leather sleeves cracked with age. Varsity letters stitched on the chest.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
I knew that jacket. I'd watched him wear it under the bleachers when I was seventeen, rain coming down outside, him asking if the seat next to me was taken. He'd kept it in a box for ten years. He'd told me once, in the dark, that he never wanted to touch it again because touching it felt like proof he used to be someone else.
He walked outside through the terrace doors, into the rain, and I followed because I didn't have a choice — because the aide's eyes were on me, because everyone's eyes were on me. Mud sucked at my heels on the lawn.
He threw the jacket at my feet.
"Use it," he said. "You look cold."
The rain had flattened his hair to his forehead. His jaw was tight, his eyes wet in a way that had nothing to do with weather. For one second — one single, useless second — I thought I saw the boy from the bleachers looking back at me.
Then it was gone.
I looked down at the jacket lying in the mud, soaking, the gold letters already darkening. I thought about picking it up. I thought about a hundred things. Instead I turned and walked past him, past the terrace, past the guests now watching through the glass with their glasses raised like this was theater.
I walked to the bus stop in the rain. No umbrella. No coat. I stood under the flickering awning for forty minutes and didn't look back once.
Someone retrieved the jacket before dawn. I never saw who. I only knew, three days later, dusting his study shelves as part of my rotation, that the box was sealed again, and the jacket inside it was clean. Pressed. Folded like it had never touched the ground at all.
He couldn't let it stay ruined. He could ruin me in front of thirty people, but not that.
I didn't think about what that meant. I didn't let myself.
That same week, I was on my knees again — different kind, same house — scrubbing grout in the third-floor bathroom, when I heard his voice through the vent. Sharp. Unsteady in a way I hadn't heard in years.
"There was no one else in that room, Paisley." A pause. "You were scared. People misremember things when they're scared."
I stopped scrubbing. Held the brush still in the bucket.
"A scar on his hand doesn't mean anything," he said. Another pause, longer. "I'm not doing this over the phone."
I heard the call end. Heard nothing after that but his footsteps, back and forth, back and forth across the floor above me, for almost an hour.
I didn't know who Paisley was talking about. I didn't know about a man with a Brooklyn accent, or a scar, or a door he walked through unarmed. I only knew that whatever she'd said had gotten under Caspian's skin in a way three years of my own suffering never had.
I went back to scrubbing. The grout came up gray, then white, under my fingers. I didn't ask questions. I'd learned a long time ago that questions in this house only ever cost me something I couldn't afford to lose.