The call comes on a Tuesday morning while I'm scrubbing coffee rings off a stranger's kitchen counter.

"Brooks?" My supervisor's voice is clipped, businesslike. "You've been requested for a private residential placement. Medina. Starts tomorrow."

I keep scrubbing. "Whose residence?"

"Wallace. Mrs. Wallace called personally. Asked for you by name."

My hand stops moving. I already know why. Paisley isn't stupid, whatever else she is. She's been watching Garrett's phone bills, probably, or his driver's routes. She found out about the wire transfers, the job offer, the shredded letters. And instead of asking her husband to stop, she found a way to put me on a leash she controls.

She wants me under her roof so she can decide exactly how I bleed.

What she doesn't know is that I've been waiting seven years for a reason to walk back through that gate.

"I'll take it," I say.

There's a pause on the line, like she expected me to argue. "You sure? It's a big house. Demanding employer, from what I hear."

"I'm sure."

I hang up and sit very still at the kitchen table that isn't mine, in the apartment that barely is. Somewhere in that house — behind a false panel in the west wing library, if it's still there, if no one ever found it — is a hard drive with everything I need. Contracts. Emails. The truth, still wearing its original clothes.

I adjust my glove. My fingers ache, the way they always do before something bad or something necessary.

Tomorrow, I go home. Except it was never mine. It was always his, and I was just allowed to live in it.

---

The gate at the Medina estate is the same wrought iron, the same twin stone lions I used to joke looked constipated. Nothing about the driveway has changed except me.

A young woman in a gray uniform like mine meets me at the service entrance. "You're the new one? Mrs. Wallace wants to walk you through everything herself."

Of course she does.

Paisley is waiting in the kitchen, dressed like she's going to a luncheon instead of overseeing hired help. Cream cashmere. Diamond studs the size of peppercorns. She smiles when she sees me, wide and warm, the kind of smile you'd photograph for a Christmas card.

"Aliana! Welcome." She says it loud enough for the two other staff members polishing the range to hear. "I'm so glad the agency could send you. We take very good care of our people here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wallace."

"Please. Call me Paisley." She doesn't mean it. Nobody who says that ever means it.

She leads me through the house like a realtor showing a property, except every room she points to comes with a task attached, delivered in the same bright, generous voice.

"The foyer floor is marble, imported from Carrara. It shows everything — footprints, dust, you name it. We usually hand-scrub it, on the knees, with the pH-balanced solution in the blue bottle. Machines scratch it." She says this like she's sharing a secret between friends. "I know it sounds like a lot, but I promise, it's very satisfying once it's done."

I look at the floor. Two thousand square feet, easy. I used to walk across it in socks, laughing, racing Garrett to the stairs.

"Of course," I say.

We move to the dining room. "The crystal has to be hand-washed. No dishwasher, ever — it clouds the cut. Every piece, dried immediately so there's no spotting." She lifts a decanter, turns it in the light like she's showing off a trophy. "There are forty-two pieces in this set alone."

"I understand."

The silver room is next. Trays, candlesticks, an entire drawer of flatware that hasn't been touched since a dinner party I probably helped plan in another life. "Silver polish, not the spray kind — it leaves residue. The paste, with a soft cloth, until you can see your reflection."

Every instruction comes wrapped in the same ribbon. Helpful. Considerate. Look how thoughtful I am, explaining all this so carefully. The other staff nod along like this is normal, because to them, maybe it is. They don't know what I know — that this woman is building a monument to my hands, brick by brick, task by task, each one chosen because it requires ten fingers that bend the way fingers are supposed to bend.

I say nothing. I take the blue bottle. I take the paste and the cloth. I let her walk me through her performance of generosity while the other two women glance at me with something like pity, which I don't need and don't want.

What I do instead, quietly, behind my eyes, is count doors. Windows. The distance from the kitchen to the west wing. The library is still where it used to be — I can see the doorframe from here, half in shadow past the staircase. The house hasn't changed its bones, even if everything living in it has.

"Any questions?" Paisley asks, folding her hands, waiting for me to flinch.

"No," I say. "I know exactly where everything is."

Her smile falters for half a second — so fast the other staff don't catch it, so fast even I almost miss it. Then it snaps back into place, bright and practiced.

"Wonderful," she says. "Start with the foyer."

I kneel on the marble. The cold seeps through my knees immediately. Somewhere above me, past the staircase, past the hallway, is a room with a false panel I helped install myself, back when I still believed this house belonged to both of us.

I dip the cloth in the solution and begin.

The second week at the estate, I learn that Paisley doesn't just want me to work. She wants an audience for it.

She hosts a small gathering on Thursday afternoon. Four women in silk blouses and statement jewelry, arranged on the cream sofas like they're posing for a magazine spread. I'm restocking the bar cart when I hear Paisley's voice lift above the others.

"Oh, how clumsy of me!"

I turn. A wine glass lies sideways on the white marble floor. Cabernet spreads in a dark red pool, creeping toward the Persian rug.

Paisley looks at me. Her smile is soft. Apologetic. "Aliana, would you mind terribly?"

She doesn't say the rest. She doesn't have to. Her eyes flick downward — to the floor, to my knees — and back up.

The four women watch. Their faces are smooth. Curious. Like they're waiting to see what kind of animal I am.

I walk to the supply closet. I get the bucket, the rags, the pH-balanced solution in the blue bottle. I carry it all back and kneel on the marble.

The cold bites through my uniform immediately. I dip the rag and start scrubbing. The wine is already staining the grout between the tiles. I have to press hard to lift it.

My right hand cramps on the second pass. I switch the rag to my left and keep going. The compression glove is soaked now. Dark. Wet.

One of the women says something about a charity auction. Another laughs. Paisley offers more wine, her voice bright and hostess-warm. No one mentions the woman on her knees between them.

I finish the first section and shift forward. My right hand slips. I catch myself, palm flat against the marble, and feel something tear inside the glove.

Warm. Wet. Different from the wine.

I don't look down. I dip the rag again. I keep scrubbing.

The blood seeps through the black fabric slowly, spreading like the wine did. My hand is shaking now. I press it against my thigh to steady it and reach for the bucket with my left.

"Aliana works so hard," Paisley says above me. "We're lucky to have her."

I finish the floor. I stand, bucket in my left hand, right hand pressed against my side. I walk toward the kitchen.

That's when Garrett comes through the front door.

He stops. His eyes go to me first — my uniform, my face, my right hand leaking red through the glove. Then to Paisley on the sofa, wine glass in hand, surrounded by her friends.

I see the moment he understands.

He crosses the room in four strides. He grabs the wine bottle off the side table and hurls it against the wall. It explodes. Glass and Cabernet everywhere.

The women gasp. One of them stands, clutching her purse.

Garrett moves between me and Paisley. His voice comes out raw. Shredded. "What the fuck did you do?"

Paisley's face goes white. Then red. "I didn't do anything. She's cleaning. It's her job."

"Her hand is bleeding!"

"She's clumsy—"

"You made her kneel in front of your friends like a fucking dog!" His voice cracks the air. The walls seem to shake. "You made her scrub wine off the floor with a broken hand because you wanted them to watch!"

Paisley stands. Her hands are fists. Her voice climbs. "You want to talk about what I did? You haven't looked at me — really looked at me — since the night you saw her at that gala. Not once. Not in two weeks. You think I don't notice?"

"That's not—"

"You never looked at me the way you're looking at her right now!" Her voice breaks. Tears streak her makeup. "Not on our wedding day. Not on our honeymoon. Not ever. I could die in front of you and you wouldn't see me the way you see her."

Silence.

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He has no answer. We all know why.

Paisley's friends are already moving toward the door, murmuring excuses, clutching coats. One of them touches Paisley's shoulder. She shakes her off.

Garrett looks at me. His face is wrecked. "Aliana—"

I walk past him. I go to the kitchen. I rinse my hand in the sink. The water runs pink.

Behind me, I hear Paisley's voice, low and shaking. "You will regret this. Both of you."

A door slams. Then another.

I peel off the glove. The cut along my palm is shallow but long. It'll scar, probably. Add it to the collection.

I wrap it in gauze from the first aid kit and finish my shift.

---

That night, I sit at my desk in the studio apartment that smells like mildew and someone else's cooking. I draw the estate from memory. Every room. Every hallway. Every door.

I mark the guest bedroom on the second floor. The built-in bookcase. The third shelf from the bottom, where the panel slides left if you press the right corner.

Seven years ago, I hid the hard drive there. Contracts. Emails. Proof that I didn't steal anything — that Garrett framed me, that he lied under oath, that every piece of evidence the prosecutors used was fabricated.

I told myself I'd come back for it. I told myself I'd survive long enough to use it.

I adjust the gauze on my palm. My hand aches. It always aches. But my left hand is steady as I sketch the retrieval route, checking angles, timing, blind spots.

For the first time in seven years, I let myself feel something I thought I'd buried in that prison stairwell.

Hope.

I don't trust it. But I use it anyway.