She looked down at her coffee. Through the wall of the apartment, she could hear her phone, left on the kitchen counter, buzzing with what she already knew was the billing department at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
The dialysis fund review, Reuben’s account. She’d called three times this week and been asked to hold and then disconnected and the billing coordinator had told her that if the account wasn’t updated by end of month, services would be scheduled for review, which was the hospital’s way of saying they were going to make a decision she wasn’t going to like.
She looked up. “Reuben’s medical bills,” she said. “Full coverage, not a contribution. Full coverage through a third party so the hospital doesn’t question it.
And if he needs the transplant before the end of the year, that’s covered, too.”
Callaway looked at her carefully. “Who’s Reuben?” “My brother.” “He’s 22. He’s been on dialysis for three years.”
Something crossed his face, brief, real, not pity, something closer to recognition. “Full coverage,” he said.
“I’ll have my attorney set it up through a medical trust today. You’ll have documentation before end of business.”
Imani nodded once. “This doesn’t make me loyal to you,” she said. “I’m not your inside person.
I’m someone who works at your estate and pays attention and if I see something relevant, I’ll tell you.”
“That’s exactly what I need,” he said. She picked up her coffee. “Then we have an arrangement.”
She didn’t tell him what she’d noticed already in the first 30 seconds of him being in her apartment about the quality of his attention.
How carefully he’d chosen his words. But how his hands on the mug had told a different story.
She didn’t tell him that she’d seen the exact moment he decided to trust her, which was not when she’d agreed to the arrangement, but 3 minutes earlier when she’d said, “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that,” and meant it.
She didn’t tell him any of that. It wasn’t relevant yet. What was relevant was the documentation and Reuben’s account and the fact that she was about to walk into a billionaire’s estate with a secret that his fiance would kill, apparently, very literally to protect.
Calloway Briggs finished his coffee, set the cup down, stood. “Monday morning, 7:00 a.m.,” he said.
“DeMarco will send you the details.” “I know where the estate is,” she said. He almost smiled.
It was a very brief almost. “Monday,” he said and let himself out. Imani sat at the table after he left and listened to the apartment settle back into its usual silence.
The bus route, the upstairs neighbor, her phone still buzzing from the hospital’s billing department.
She picked it up. “This is Imani Osei,” she said. “I’m calling about account number 7731B.
There’s going to be a third-party payment arrangement set up for this account today. Can you note that and hold off on any status changes until you receive the documentation?”
She listened, nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Yes, I’ll hold.” She held. She watched the street out the kitchen window.
She thought about yellow cleaning gloves and a plate in the garden and a woman’s hand opening like a small deliberate trap.
She thought about what was behind the locked room at the east wing of the Briggs estate because there was always something in houses like that.
There was always something that didn’t want to be found. She’d been good at finding things that didn’t want to be found.
Maybe it was time to find out how good. Monday arrived the way difficult things always do.
