Chapter 2 - The Job She Never Wanted
Rebecca nearly turned around three times before reaching the Costa estate.
The first time was at the iron gate.
The second was when a man with an earpiece asked for identification.
The third was when the driveway curved through bare winter trees and revealed a stone mansion large enough to have its own weather.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.
The driver looked at her in the mirror.
“Ma’am?”
“Nothing.”
Clara had sent the car.
Rebecca had refused twice.
Clara sent it anyway.
That should have warned her what employment might look like.
The front doors opened before Rebecca reached them.
A silver-haired woman introduced herself as Margaret.
“Mrs. Costa is expecting you.”
“Does anybody call her Clara?”
Margaret’s mouth twitched.
“People interested in surviving breakfast sometimes do.”
Rebecca liked her immediately.
They crossed a marble foyer.
“Mr. Costa is also expecting you.”
Rebecca stopped.
“That sounds less promising.”
Margaret smiled.
“He has that effect.”
Roman waited in a library.
Rebecca had never seen that many books outside a public building.
He stood near tall windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading something on a tablet.
Without the black suit jacket, the tattoos on his right arm were visible.
Not decorative little designs.
Dark ink disappeared beneath his shirt.
She had assumed a man like Roman Costa would look less dangerous in daylight.
She had been wrong.
He looked up.
“You came.”
“I enjoy stating the obvious too.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“Sit.”
Rebecca remained standing.
“Is that how you ask?”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Would you please sit?”
“Much better.”
She sat.
Roman did not.
“Before my mother employs you, I need certain things understood.”
“My mother used to say conversations beginning with that sentence never end well.”
“Your mother worked here.”
Rebecca stopped smiling.
“What?”
Roman watched her.
“Evelyn Davis worked as a private medical aide for my mother seventeen years ago.”
Rebecca stared.
“No.”
“I have photographs.”
“No.”
Roman handed her one.
Rebecca’s fingers went cold.
Her mother stood beside Clara.
Younger.
Healthy.
Smiling.
Rebecca had never seen the uniform.
Never seen the room.
But it was Evelyn.
“My mother was a home-health aide.”
“Yes.”
“She worked all over Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“She never mentioned this family.”
Roman’s gaze remained steady.
“Apparently.”
Rebecca looked at the photograph again.
“When?”
“Eleven months before my father died.”
She looked up.
Roman’s expression had changed.
More guarded.
“What happened to him?”
“Car accident.”
Something about the answer felt incomplete.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because somebody erased most of your mother’s employment records from my family archives.”
Rebecca laughed once.
“Family archives?”
“Records.”
“And you think I did it?”
“You were eleven.”
“Good. For a second I thought this interview was getting weird.”
Roman ignored that.
“Did your mother ever mention Clara Costa?”
“No.”
“Antonio Costa?”
“No.”
“The Costa family?”
“No.”
Rebecca pushed the photograph back.
“My mother was secretive about work. She said wealthy people paid for discretion.”
“That sounds like her.”
Rebecca’s eyes sharpened.
“You remember her.”
“Yes.”
That landed differently.
“How?”
“She helped my mother after surgery.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You made a face.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Roman turned away.
Rebecca stood.
“Look, Mr. Costa—”
“Roman.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“If you’re going to argue with me daily, Roman will save time.”
“Optimistic assumption.”
A cane tapped outside.
Clara entered.
“There you are.”
Rebecca smiled despite herself.
“Good morning.”
“Roman bothering you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
They answered simultaneously.
Clara smiled.
“Excellent. You’ll fit.”
Roman looked toward his mother.
“Rebecca knows Evelyn worked here.”
Clara stopped.
The room became quiet.
Rebecca heard it.
Not saw.
Heard.
The way Clara’s cane stopped.
The way Margaret’s breathing changed at the door.
Rebecca’s chest tightened.
“You knew.”
Clara directed her face toward Rebecca.
“I recognized the name last night.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you had just lost your job.”
“That didn’t stop you from offering me another one.”
Clara’s mouth tightened.
“Evelyn was my friend.”
Rebecca stared.
“My mother never mentioned you.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Clara lowered herself into a chair.
“That is a longer conversation than either of us needs before coffee.”
Rebecca looked at Roman.
He looked equally dissatisfied.
“Fine,” Rebecca said. “Then let’s discuss this job.”
Clara smiled.
Roman muttered something Italian under his breath.
The position was not nursing.
Clara made that clear.
She had medical staff.
She had security.
What she wanted was someone to accompany her to appointments, charity events, walks, shopping and occasionally lunch.
Someone who would read mail without adding opinions.
“Impossible,” Rebecca said.
Clara continued.
Someone who would help her navigate unfamiliar environments without treating her like a child.
Someone willing to tell Roman to stop hovering.
Rebecca considered.
“That last part sounds attractive.”
Roman folded his arms.
The salary Clara offered was more than Rebecca earned working sixty hours a week at the Brass Kettle.
She stared at the number.
“This is too much.”
“It is not.”
“I’m not trained.”
“You are experienced.”
“My mother wasn’t a job.”
Clara’s voice softened.
“No. Which is why you know the difference between helping someone and taking control away from them.”
Rebecca looked down.
Rent.
Electricity.
A refrigerator with mustard.
She hated that money made decisions before pride had time to speak.
“One month.”
Clara smiled.
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Six weeks.”
“Done.”
Roman looked between them.
“Was I involved in this?”
“No,” both women said.
Rebecca began the next morning.
She quickly learned Clara Costa was difficult in ways unrelated to blindness.
She cheated at cards.
Argued with television commentators.
Refused low-sodium food.
Pretended not to hear instructions she disliked.
Her memory was inconsistent.
On Wednesday she forgot which hallway led to the conservatory.
On Thursday she recited the birthdays of all eleven grandchildren of a former governor.
Rebecca did not correct her unless necessary.
She simply offered information.
“Library is two doors behind us.”
“Your blue scarf is on the chair.”
“Roman is standing by the window pretending not to listen.”
“I am not pretending,” Roman said.
Clara smiled.
“He is always listening.”
Rebecca noticed other things too.
Roman came home every night no matter how late.
He checked Clara’s medications himself.
He called her doctor too often.
He pretended irritation whenever Clara touched his face to see whether he had shaved.
He always leaned down so she could reach.
The feared mafia boss was apparently incapable of saying no to his mother when she asked for cannoli.
It made Rebecca uncomfortable.
Dangerous men were easier to dislike when they behaved dangerously at all times.
Roman refused to cooperate.
One afternoon Rebecca found him in the kitchen cutting an apple into slices.
“Mother hates the skin.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.
“You know after four days?”
“She tells me repeatedly.”
Roman placed the slices on a plate.
“How is she?”
“You see her every day.”
“I’m asking you.”
Rebecca understood.
“The memory issues?”
He nodded.
“She gets disoriented more when she’s tired.”
“That’s what Bell says.”
“Dr. Bell?”
“Her neurologist.”
Rebecca frowned.
“Does he manage her heart medication too?”
“No.”
“Then why are some of her pills different?”
Roman stopped.
“What?”
Rebecca had found them that morning.
Clara used a weekly medication organizer.
Monday’s evening tablet was pale yellow.
Tuesday’s was white.
Same compartment.
Same supposed prescription.
Rebecca had learned medication shapes while caring for Evelyn.
Poor families became amateur nurses quickly.
“I assumed the pharmacy changed suppliers.”
Roman was already moving.
They found Clara in the music room listening to an old Ella Fitzgerald record.
Roman picked up the organizer.
“Mother, where did these come from?”
“The little box.”
Rebecca almost smiled.
Roman did not.
“The pharmacy delivery Monday?”
“I assume.”
Roman called someone.
Ten minutes later, two security men were examining medication bottles.
An hour later, the house pharmacist arrived.
He confirmed the tablets were technically the same drug from two manufacturers.
Roman relaxed slightly.
Rebecca did not.
“Why does this bottle say ten milligrams?”
The pharmacist looked.
Clara’s prescribed dose was five.
Silence filled the room.
Roman’s face became hard.
“Who filled this?”
The pharmacist checked.
“Prescription changed last month.”
“By whom?”
“Dr. Bell.”
Roman called him immediately.
Dr. Lawrence Bell explained Clara had reported worsening insomnia.
He had increased the dosage.
Clara frowned.
“I did not.”
Bell insisted she had.
Roman believed the doctor.
Rebecca could tell.
Bell had treated Clara for seven years.
He was respected.
Published.
A family friend.
Rebecca said nothing until the call ended.
Then she asked Clara, “Do you remember asking for stronger medication?”
“No.”
Roman rubbed his forehead.
“Mother, you sometimes forget conversations.”
Clara went still.
Rebecca saw the wound immediately.
Not because Roman was cruel.
Because he had made the mistake everyone eventually made around people whose memory was becoming unreliable.
He had used her condition to end the argument.
Clara stood.
“I am tired.”
“Mother—”
“No.”
She held out her hand.
Rebecca rose.
Clara took her arm.
“Take me upstairs.”
Roman looked guilty.
Rebecca guided Clara out.
At the stairs, Clara whispered, “He is frightened.”
“I know.”
“He thinks if he controls enough doors, nobody can leave through them.”
Rebecca thought of Evelyn.
“How long has your memory been getting worse?”
“A year.”
“Suddenly?”
“Slowly.”
“Before the medication change?”
“Yes.”
Clara stopped halfway up the stairs.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Your mother asked questions like this.”
Rebecca’s stomach tightened.
“About medicine?”
“About everything.”
“What happened between you?”
Clara gripped her arm.
Then released it.
“Not here.”
Rebecca glanced down.
No one visible.
But cameras covered the estate.
“Why?”
Clara’s voice dropped.
“Because I don’t know who still listens.”
Rebecca’s skin prickled.
That evening she returned to her apartment with more questions than answers.
The door was slightly open.
She froze.
Rebecca never left it open.
She backed away and called 911.
Police arrived eighteen minutes later.
Nothing valuable appeared missing.
Not the twenty-dollar bill in the kitchen drawer.
Not the cheap laptop.
Not Evelyn’s old jewelry box.
But her bedroom had been searched.
Drawers opened.
Mattress shifted.
Closet disturbed.
One thing was missing.
A cardboard box labeled MOM.
Rebecca stood in the doorway.
Her breathing changed.
The officer asked, “Anything valuable inside?”
“No.”
“What was there?”
“Pictures.”
Letters.
Medical records.
Her mother’s old appointment books.
Nothing worth money.
Everything worth memory.
Rebecca called Clara.
Roman answered.
“How did you get my number?”
“My mother’s phone.”
“My apartment was broken into.”
Silence.
Then Roman’s voice changed.
“Are you inside?”
“Police are here.”
“Stay with them.”
“I know how burglary works.”
“Rebecca.”
“What?”
“Do not leave with anyone except Marcus.”
She frowned.
“Who said I’m leaving?”
“I did.”
“I am not sleeping at your house.”
“Your apartment was searched hours after you asked questions about my mother’s medication.”
“That could be coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in those.”
“I’m not moving into a mafia fortress because somebody stole photographs.”
Roman went silent.
Rebecca realized what she had said.
“You know who I am.”
It was not a question.
She looked toward the officers.
“I have Google.”
“And?”
“And half the internet says you’re a billionaire businessman. The other half says you’re responsible for every unsolved crime since Prohibition.”
“Which half do you believe?”
Rebecca looked at her mother’s empty box space.
“The half currently offering better security.”
Marcus arrived twenty minutes later.
The Costa estate looked even more ridiculous at midnight.
Clara was waiting in the sitting room.
Rebecca entered carrying one duffel bag.
Clara held out her hand.
Rebecca took it.
“They took Mom’s things.”
Clara squeezed her fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
No answer.
“Clara.”
The older woman’s face tightened.
“Your mother left because she found something she was never supposed to know.”
Rebecca felt cold.
Roman appeared in the doorway.
“What?”
Clara turned toward him.
“I hoped this would die with Antonio.”
Roman stepped closer.
“What would?”
May you like
Clara swallowed.
“The truth about your father.”
