It is raining when I come down the stairs, a sudden shower that darkens the morning sky. I fiddle with the button on my left sleeve trying to fasten it, water from my hair lightly staining my collar. I plan to head into the kitchen for coffee, but I am curious about what they are doing. I wander back through the living room toward the study and stand just outside the crack in the door.

From where I am standing, I cannot see Natalie over the back of the couch, but I can see Mrs. Walraven lying on its edge. She holds both of Natalie's hands in her own, looking nearly as small as her daughter.

" . . . when they're coming back," Natalie says.

"It won't be long, just a few days more," Mrs. Walraven says. She reaches forward and the movement of her shoulder makes me think that she is stroking her hand down Natalie's face.

Natalie makes a small sound on the sofa, and I can hear her rustling – the sound she makes when she nestles against me.

"Are you doing alright here? Is Mr. Schiller being nice to you?" Mrs. Walraven says.

"Yeah," Natalie says. She speaks very softly, more a sigh than actual words.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Walraven says.

Natalie is quiet for a rather long time. "Why are you asking me that?"

Mrs. Walraven presses her lips together for just a second but keeps her eyes even on her daughter's face. "I just want to make sure he's treating you well."

"Do you – do you think – he wouldn't?" Natalie asks.

Mother and daughter share a long, silent look. Were I to know the nuances of their faces, I think I would hear so much communication pass between them.

"I think," Mrs. Walraven says. She is speaking slowly, carefully, choosing her words. "Mr. Schiller will keep you safe. He wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

"Do you think – Mr. Schiller would hurt me?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven stops, her eyes startled although she hasn't discernibly moved. "Why? Did something happen? Did he scare you?" she asks.

"No," Natalie says. "He's been great to me. It's just that . . ."

"Tell me, solnyshka," Mrs. Walraven says.

"Mom?" she says. The word comes out round and soft, the sound a baby bird makes. Natalie rustles, and I imagine her brushing her cheek against the shoulder of her pink hooded sweatshirt, the one that's so soft it makes her feel like a lamb. "You know how when we talked on the phone – I told you that Uncle Mike had told me some things – about Mr. Schiller."

Mrs. Walraven stills. She is wearing an expression I have come to know means she is thinking fast – deciding how she will answer a question before it comes. "Yes," she says. Her voice is neutral.

"Uncle Mike said – he said Mr. Schiller killed Dad," Natalie says.

Mrs. Walraven stiffens, and then her expression turns soft. She runs her hand down the side of Natalie's face again. "I know he thinks that, but I don't," Mrs. Walraven says.

"How come?" Natalie asks.

"Because Mr. Schiller – he doesn't do things unless there's a logical reason. And the reason he gave me for not doing that makes sense," Mrs. Walraven says.

"What did he say?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven's mouth tightens again.

"Uncle Mike told me why he thinks Mr. Schiller did it already. He said some people think Daddy stole something that belonged to Mr. Schiller," Natalie says.

Mrs. Walraven sighs, a hardness in her eyes that I know means she is seething while seeming perfectly calm. She presses her lips together before speaking again. "Mr. Schiller told me that if he wanted to get it back, he would need to work with Daddy in order to find it."

"And you believe him?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven kisses her daughter's joined hands. "I do," she says.

Natalie makes a soft sound. "Me too," she says.

Mrs. Walraven crinkles her eyes and gives a sad smile. "But, baby, you should be careful around Mr. Schiller," she says. "I don't know how long he's going to be in our lives, and I'm a little worried because you're getting so attached to him."

"I know," Natalie says.

"But, also," Mrs. Walraven says.

I lean closer, my hands resting on the doorposts.

"We don't know Mr. Schiller that well," Mrs. Walraven says.

"Do you think that Mr. Schiller is a bad guy?" Natalie asks.

Mrs. Walraven takes a long time in answering, and I feel my shoulders tightening toward the base of my neck. "I don't think he's a bad guy, but he is dangerous," Mrs. Walraven says.

I lean back, turn and walk away.


Natalie comes into the kitchen while I am standing at the island, drinking coffee. Her feet make quiet swishing sounds across the tile, and her pajama pants drag on the floor behind her. I can't help but give a small smile. She smiles back at me, rubbing her eye with the back of her fingers, the sleeve of her sweatshirt nearly covering her entire hand. She shivers and comes to stand next to me, like I'm a fire keeping her warm.

"Mom's taking a shower," Natalie says. She stifles a yawn.

I nod and look down at the top of her head. The gray light from the morning rain makes her hair shine like straw spun to gold. She leans close to me and wraps an arm around my back, hugging me for a long moment before letting me go. I stiffen at her touch. I'm not used to it. The times that I've held her she's been crying or nearly asleep. She laughs at me and pads around the island, already opening the refrigerator door and looking for juice.

I stare at her. I hadn't expected her sudden affection. Even yesterday, I would have been stunned. But especially today it surprises me, when her mother has just warned her about how dangerous I am.

"Natalie," I say. I cock my head, watching her.

She abandons her search for juice and opens the plastic container on the counter, pulling out one of yesterday's croissants. She carries it over in both her hands, pinching off a piece and squeezing it between her fingers. I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't. She simply pulls herself up onto one of the high chairs and looks at me, licking chocolate out of the tear in the bread.

I lean my hips against the island counter and look at her, so long that she swallows her bite and sits still. "Are you – worried about anything?" I ask.

She pinches off another bite and chews it slowly before answering. "I'm worried about my brothers," she says.

I nod and narrow my eyes, holding her gaze so that she cannot look away. "Anything else?" I ask.

She licks chocolate off her lower lip and tilts her head. I can't tell whether her thoughtfulness is feigned or not. "I'm worried about my mom, about the things you guys are doing."

I nod and wait for her to go on.

"I know I shouldn't be," Natalie says. She looks down and toys with the bread in her hands. "But I'm worried about my Uncle Mike."

I stare at her without saying anything. She looks back at me, steady and unflinching. I hold her gaze so long, anyone else would have been squirming, but she looks back at me silent, in thought. If she knows what I am asking, she gives no indication and, if so, she is a far better liar than many of the people I do business with. Her eyes return to the croissant she is holding, and she pinches off another piece, biting it even though it is small before putting the rest into her mouth.

I brush an imaginary dusting of fine coffee grounds into a line and keep my eyes on my finger as I speak. "Are you worried about me?" I ask. I don't raise my eyes to see her reaction until the last two words.

She looks up at me, her quick brown eyes going still. "What do you mean? Is something wrong?" she asks.

I look at her. I don't answer.

She slides off her chair and lands with a thump on the floor. She walks around the island and comes to stand next to me, pressing into me so that our sides touch. She looks up at me, and she is so close I have to fight the urge to lean away from her. "Is something wrong?" she asks again. Her dark eyes search my face. I don't answer, and she moves even closer. "Are you okay?"

I lean back when I hear her last question. I'm taken so off guard I move away. She steps closer to me like a hound chasing a fox, and I put my hand on the base of her neck just to keep her back.

"Are you okay?" she asks again. She looks up at me, her brows knitted together.

"Yes, I'm fine," I say. It sounds like a bad lie.

"Are you really?" she asks. She pushes closer.

"Yes, I am. You don't have to be concerned," I say.

She looks at me, disbelief clear on her face.

"I'm fine. I was only asking," I say. I can't bring myself to tell a better lie.

She chews on her bottom lip and frowns at me. "Would you tell me if you weren't?" she says.

I smile and relax a little, sagging down to be closer to her. I rub the back of her neck and lean toward her. "I would," I say. It is almost a whisper.


I follow the sound of their voices toward the kitchen. My hair smells like Schiller's shampoo, and I keep turning around to see if he is standing behind me before I remember that the scent is coming from me. I stop short when I see them together. They are standing with their backs to me in front of the stove. Schiller holds a spatula in his left hand and steadies a shallow pan with his right. Natalie laughs, nudging him with her shoulder, and he leans down, saying something into her ear. She shakes her head, moving away from him a step before he reaches out and places his hand on the back of her neck. He pulls her against his side and says something else into her ear. I wonder why he is whispering to her like it's a secret when there is no one else in the world to hear.


We walk toward the cars together in the morning rain. It's lightened up some, but I huddle against Mr. Schiller to stay warm, while he holds a giant golf umbrella up over our heads. Mom trails along beside me, her hands on both my shoulders, touching me but being careful not brush against him. It's hard not to, though, with Mr. Schiller's arm around my back.

They are so awkward with each other it almost makes me laugh. Even when they're nice to each other, it goes through me, like Mr. Schiller wrapping up a crepe in a paper napkin and handing it to me to give to my mother. And my mother taking it, saying, "thank Mr. Schiller for me". They revolve around each other without interacting, like an old divorced couple with a kid.

Mr. Schiller is growing impatient because Mom keeps on lagging behind, and he has to keep stopping to hold the umbrella over her too. But he doesn't ask her about it, so she doesn't explain. And he gets more annoyed until he starts to get mad. I laugh, and they turn to stare at me.

"Mom doesn't believe in umbrellas," I say. My laughs make little clouds of breath in the air. I blink water out of my eyes from a sudden splash. "She likes to walk in the rain."

Mr. Schiller narrows his eyes at me, as if he's trying to decide whether I'm telling a joke.

"It's true," I say, drying my cheek by brushing it against his shoulder.

He stares at my mom, and her cheeks turn a little pink. She shrugs and says that she's always liked the rain. He scowls at her, and I laugh again.

He walks me to the car and holds the umbrella over me while I get in. Then, even though she doesn't want it, he follows my mom to her car too. They stand together, talking for a few minutes, Mr. Schiller leaning close to her to say something in her ear. I tilt my head watching them. I wonder whether they feel like they can't be nice to each other unless they are alone.


Schiller walks me around the car, following close. He is edgy, like a caged animal as soon as Natalie is gone. I open the door, and he stops me, putting his hand on my arm. I look down at it and then back at his face. He leans close to me – a cold grayness in his eyes. He doesn't have to squeeze for me to know that I am trapped.

He leans down to me and speaks into my ear. "I thought you'd want to know we've dealt with Kurt Bowman," he says.

"Dealt with?" I ask.

"He's in the trunk of Vincent's car – most of him," Schiller says. He nods toward the car Natalie is in. I have to bite my lip hard to keep from turning and looking at her. I'm afraid she'll see it on my face. "And Michael Tomlin?" Schiller asks. He looks down at me – dispassionate, cold.

I take a breath. I don't know what Schiller already knows about Mike. It's hard to hide from him; I know that too well. But I promised Dina so I speak the lie as steadily as I can. "He's been – dealt with," I say. It comes out almost a whisper.

"Good," Schiller says. He takes a step closer, his posture rigid, wearing the threat in his body like a steel rod in his back. "So the daughter is safe, and the mother is back on the job, focused on nothing else."

"I know. I'm going to . . ." I say.

But Schiller cuts me off. He gives a humorless laugh. "This is not a favor," he says. He is so cold right now, his closeness makes me shiver. "I am helping you protect Natalie because you work for me. Do you understand?"

"Is that why you brought me over here, to remind me that I owe you?" I ask.

Schiller laughs and gives a single shake of his head. He leans in again and speaks into my ear. "What difference does the occasion make? You know the strait you are in whether I remind you or not."


Natalie opens the window and puts her hand out to feel the rain on her skin. She laughs when an errant drop splashes her face. She smiles and looks back over her shoulder at me, breathless. I cock my head, watching her. She is freer at this moment than I have ever seen her.

After a minute, she sits back and closes the window. She sits close to me, though not touching as before. She looks up at me and blinks the tips of hair from her eyes. "So how come we're taking this car today?" she asks.

I smile down at her. "Vincent has some errands to run this morning, so we're taking his car instead of mine," I say. And I'm not lying when I say it.