And when she was sure, truly sure, she would decide what to do.
Friday morning was bright and clear, the kind of morning that seems almost unreasonably cheerful when your mind is heavy.
Rebecca arrived at 6:55 as always. She let herself in through the gate—Mr. Caleb had given her a key at the end of her first week—and went to the kitchen to start the morning.
She moved through her routine: kettle on, breakfast prepared, table set, everything in its right place.
She was cracking the eggs when she heard Mr. Caleb come downstairs. His tread on the stairs was familiar to her now. She could tell the difference between his morning steps and his midday steps, between the pace he used when he was going somewhere with purpose and the slightly slower one he used when something was on his mind.
That morning his steps were slow.
He came to the kitchen doorway and stopped.
This was unusual. He never came to the kitchen in the mornings. She brought breakfast to him. That was the arrangement.
She looked up from the pan.
He was standing in the doorway in his white shirt and gray trousers, looking at her with an expression she had never seen on his face before. Not cold. Not warm. Something in between. Something careful and stripped of its usual control, the way a wall looks after the paint has been taken off: still standing, but more honest.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Good morning.”
He did not move from the doorway.
“Rebecca, are you free this evening? After you finish your work here?”
She kept her face still. “Yes, sir.”
“I’d like you to stay a little later today, if that’s possible. I need to talk to you about something.” He paused. “Not about the job.”
The eggs were beginning to cook in the pan. She kept her eyes on them, giving them the attention they needed.
“Of course,” she said calmly. “What time would you like?”
“Around 7:00. I’ll be here.”
He nodded and went back down the hallway to his study.
Rebecca stood at the stove and watched the eggs.
Not about the job.
Her heart was beating at a slightly different pace than usual. She noticed it the way you notice a clock that has started ticking louder, not alarming, just present, impossible to ignore.
She finished making his breakfast. She carried it to the table. She set it down without a sound.
The day moved slowly. She did her work thoroughly, the way she always did, but the hours felt longer than usual, each 1 arriving and passing with deliberate patience, as if time itself had decided not to hurry.
That day, Mr. Caleb worked in his study all morning. At lunch he came to the table and ate quietly, then went back. She heard him on the phone once in the afternoon, speaking in his clipped professional voice about something to do with a building permit. Normal things. Ordinary things.
But twice, when she passed the study doorway on her way down the hall, she caught him not working, just sitting with his hands folded, looking somewhere that was not the room.
She made dinner at 6:00—rice, grilled chicken, a small salad—and served it at the usual time. He ate. She cleared. She washed the dishes and dried them and put them back in their places.
Then she sat at the small kitchen table and waited.
She heard his chair move, his footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of the sitting room light being turned on.
