A week after Benoit dragged an unconscious Ransom to the police, Marta thinks that maybe she'll be able to get a decent night's sleep since Mama and Alicia are both out on a mother-daughter spa trip. She's relaxing in her room, music playing softly as she reads through an old book she's had since high school.

"Marta…." She doesn't hear it at first, just a vague sound that barely passes through the layer of wood and rugs. She turns the page, humming along to whatever Mirrah is crooning. "Marta…." She does look up this time, expecting to find someone nearby. Maybe Mama finally convinced Alicia that a spa trip was too luxurious or Alicia forgot the coupon they'd won in a grocery store raffle.

"Mama," she calls. There's no response, just the whispering of wind through the leaves outside. She puts it down to her imagination and turns her attention back to Bilbo's riddle game. She's always like riddles and puzzles, they don't lie to you.

"Marta…." Twisting her lips to the side, she sets the book down and shuffles out into the hallway.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"Marta…." She suddenly wishes she'd taken up Benoit's offer to stay with her. He might not be the broadest man in existence, but he's certainly capable. Marta sucks in a steadying breath because she's capable, too. She stood up to a bunch of crazy white people, she punched one of them a week ago, she's got this. "Marta…."

"Fuck, I don't got this." She picks up the softball bat they keep in the hot water closet, creeping up the stairs. She's had a line of carpenters prancing through the house, so the stairs no longer creak so horribly.

The door of Harlan's study is cracked open, light spilling out over the carpet. Her first thought is of an intruder trying to steal some of Harlan's things, but then she hears stones scratching against wood and realizes exactly who is skulking around in the study.

"Drysdale, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick your ass!"

"Just get in here and shut up," he yells back. She stomps the rest of the way down the hall and pushes the door open, the warm light revealing the same cluttered mess Harlan had thrived in. Ransom is sitting at the low table, the Go board set up with the stones on either side of it. "Come on, let's see how good you really are."

"Why shouldn't I call the cops?"

"Because I'm adorable." He grins up at her like a kid posing for a school photograph, but there's a streak of dirt along the bridge of his nose and worry in his baby blues. "Please? I get bored at night." She sits down across from him, but keeps the bat close just in case. He's already tried to murder her once and she's not taking any chances that he won't try again.

"Black or white?"

"What do you think?" She takes the black pieces simply because they're hers, she was always black and Harlan was always white. "You go first. After all, it's your house."

"If it's my house, then why do you keep breaking in?" He shrugs, a fluid thing that speaks to years of not having to worry. He'd never had a job, never worried that he wouldn't have enough money for food and rent, never had to scrounge for work so he could keep his heat on in the winter. His privileged life has left him unprepared for the real world.

"Beat me and maybe I'll tell you." So she focuses on the board, placing stone after stone until she's got more on the board than Ransom. He's scowling at the pieces, one hand rubbing the scruff on his cheek. She didn't notice the stubble at first, so pale that it's nearly invisible until he turns his head a certain way and the lights catch it.

"Give up yet?"

"No." She places another stone on the board and his scowl deepens into a pout. The man is in his thirties and he's pouting like a little boy who's been told he can't have dessert until he eats his supper. It's pretty accurate if she really thinks about it. Ransom's always been a dessert first kind of man.

"Are you sure?" He cuts his eyes up to hers, features sharp as shadows are thrown over the dips and plains of his face. She smiles in response, feeling the triumphant joy of winning. She used to feel this way with Harlan when they played and with her sister when they were younger and obsessed with Candyland.

"I'm not giving up, Martha."

"You can get my name right when you whisper it like some kind of creep, but not when you're losing? Shame on you." He doesn't look put-out, he even manages a smile. Alicia might have found it charming, but Alicia hadn't been tackled by him either.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." He rubs a hand over his mouth and she sees a glimpse of Harlan in him, the set of his shoulders and the little tics he displays when he's losing. Ransom could have been such a good man if his father hadn't coddled him, if his mother had let him spend more time with his grandfather. He could have been a man Harlan would have been proud of.

"How long have you been out of prison," she asks instead of voicing her thoughts.

"Few weeks," he mutters into his palm. "Good behavior or overcrowding, I'm not sure which to thank, but here I am." He spreads out his arms, but the accompanying smile doesn't quite muffle the sadness in his eyes. "It's your move again."

Marta studies the board, tapping her stone against the wood as she thinks. Ransom is good, Harlan hadn't lied about that, but he's not as good as Marta. The Thrombey family plays by their own rules, but Marta's always found an easier way through the muck and arrogance. She places her stone and Ransom falls back in his seat with a dramatic groan.

"Fine, you win." She grins, leaning back in her own chair with a tad more grace. It's getting late and she's tired, but she's not about to leave the study without an answer to her question.

"So, why do you keep breaking in?" His response is muttered, too low for her to untangle the rush of words. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you." He pulls a face and rolls his eyes just like Harlan used to when a novel wasn't coming along like he wanted it to.

"I said," he says again, speaking louder and slower," that I have nowhere else to go."

"You had a nice apartment."

"Couldn't exactly pay the rent when I was in prison. Mom refuses to speak to me while her and Dad slog through their divorce and Dad is just…. Well, you've met him." Richard Drysdale is the world's biggest baby, throwing tantrums and the occasional two-hundred-dollar vase when things don't go his way. "I stayed with Walt for a couple of days, but his son's a Nazi and I almost punted him out a window."

"Understandable urge." He catches her meaning and raises a brow, smirk sharp as any knife. "I've felt it once or twice around your family." Once or twice was an understatement, she's fantasized about punting all of the Thrombey clan—aside from Harlan—out a window at least fifty times since she started working for Harlan.

"Anyway, Meg and Joni won't even answer the door when I knock and I can't find a decent job even with my degree, so I figured I'd crash here a while. Imagine my surprise when I showed up that first night and found your family here."

"It's our house."

"Yeah, but you're a good person and I figured you would renounce your claim."

"I'm not that nice."

"Obviously." He scoffs and shakes his head, settling in the chair like he owns it. Her fingers twitch in her lap and her heartstrings are tugged. The rest of the Thrombeys had suffered no real consequences, they each had their own businesses to focus on and Walt had even found a new publishing company to work for, but Ransom had nothing.

It would be easy to kick him out of her house, turn him out on the street with nothing. He would have done that to her had she been the one squatting in his house. He'd probably call ICE and get her mom deported. Unfortunately, as Benoit had pointed out, she has a kind heart. I fucking hate being a good person.

"One more game and then I'll order us some pizza. If you win, you can stay in your grandfather's study."

"And if I lose?"

"You have to go through all your grandfather's stuff in the basement."