He nodded seriously, then sat back down.
For the first time since I’d arrived, the air in the house felt breathable.
Then Evan said, “You’re not going to last.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I’m going to try.”
His eyes narrowed, searching my face for the lie.
He didn’t find one.
I stood, carefully tucking the dinosaur into my jacket pocket, and said, “Your dad’s waiting for me. But I’ll be back.”
I left before they could test me again.
Adrian’s office was downstairs, behind a heavy oak door that was already open.
He sat at a wide desk, papers spread before him, a laptop glowing cold blue in the dimming afternoon light.
He didn’t look up.
“They didn’t break anything,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
“That’s a first.”
I stepped inside but didn’t sit.
“They’re grieving,” I said. “Not broken.”
His eyes lifted, sharp and assessing.
“You’ve been here an hour.”
“Long enough to see what everyone else missed.”
“And what’s that?”
“That they’re not trying to hurt people. They’re trying to see if anyone will stay.”
Adrian’s jaw worked.
For a moment, I thought he might argue.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “The agency told me you needed the money. They didn’t say why.”
My pulse kicked.
“Does it matter?”
“It does if it affects your judgment.”
I held his gaze.
“It won’t.”
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded once.
“You’ll start in the morning. Six a.m. Breakfast, school routines, behavioral management. I’ll be working from home this week, so I’ll be available if things escalate.”
“They won’t,” I said.
His expression didn’t change.
“Fourteen nannies, Miss Carter. All of them thought the same thing.”
I didn’t argue.
I just said, “Then I guess I’ll be the fifteenth who proves you wrong.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or the faintest trace of hope.
But he buried it quickly.
“We’ll see.”
I left his office, climbed the stairs to the guest room they’d prepared for me, and closed the door.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Maya’s nurse.
*Her fever spiked again. Doctors want to move the surgery up if possible.*
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, and typed back.
*I’m working on it. Two more days.*
I set the phone down and pulled Luke’s dinosaur from my pocket.
Worn green fabric. Button eyes. One leg stitched with mismatched thread.
A six-year-old’s most precious thing, handed to a stranger because she told him the truth.
I pressed my forehead against it and let myself breathe.
