Page 30 of Liar Byrd
Without this job, I think I would have starved.
He extends his hand towards me across the table, then picks up a piece of paper from the surface as if that had been his initial plan.
It wasn’t.
He was going to shake my hand, but I retreated, as subtly as I could, and I think he saw I was afraid.
He eyes me for a beat, his gaze searching. It can be as searching as he wants, but I will never let him see how much Jeremiah hurt me, and how deeply my mom’s betrayal scarred me.
When you wander the world with your scars on show, there will always be someone who takes advantage of you. Mom taught me that. And I willneverneed a man the way she needed to be loved. Not for as long as I live.
“The job advert was wrong about something,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s a thousand dollars a month. You get paid every two weeks.”
Why does it feel like he just bumped up the pay just for me?
Then I panic. “Uh, how do I get paid?”
Please don’t say bank transfer.
“Bank transfer.” He pauses, eyes lingering on me. “Or cash.”
My shoulders relax. “I would prefer cash,” I tell him as casually as I can, fishing out my stolen driver’s license to hand to him. “Do you need ID?”
He gives it a passing glance and shakes his head. “That’s fine.”
I don’t know if he’s so rich that he doesn’t understand the hiring process, or if he’s indifferent to resumes and references, but I could hug him in relief.
He rounds the desk. “Come on. I’ll show you up.” He keeps speaking as he walks. ““You won’t be doing the cooking—Nance prefers to handle that. She’ll show you what needs cleaning and what tasks to do tomorrow. Report to the kitchen at eight. You can meet the other staff there. You have your own room, three meals a day, and time off.”
I trail him out of the room. “You said there were other staff.”
He nods. “Nance is our housekeeper. We have a gardener, Kit, and Lydia is another maid.”
Ourhousekeeper?
He pauses at the foot of the beautiful mahogany staircase and twists to face me. “If you grab your bag, I can show you to your room.”
I wipe all traces of expression from my face. “I, uh, don’t have a bag.”
All I own is a stolen driver’s license and the clothes the volunteers gave me at the women’s shelter. That’s it. Just the clothes on my back and a name that isn’t even mine.
“Right.” He turns and resumes walking up the stairs.
I stare at his back, confused.
“The staff wear a uniform,” he continues.
I hurry to catch up. “Like Nance’s?”
“Yes, she’ll bring one up for you with a meal this evening.”
“Does Nance have a room near mine?”
I hope nobody has a room near mine.
