Chapter 16: The Family Talk

On day forty-four, at nine at night, Thatcher texted me: "My mother has called a family talk. Stay at your desk."

I took a turndown cart and went straight up.

It's not against rule two when you work there.

The penthouse door was open.

Constance sat on the long sofa with a pot of tea she had poured herself.

Monique was in the armchair with her phone propped on her knee, filming, smiling.

A man in a grey suit sat on the far end of the sofa with a leather bag between his shoes.

Thatcher stood at the window, still in his coat.

"June, dear," said Constance. "How kind. This is a family matter, so you may go."

"Of course, Mrs. Kincaid."

I rolled the cart to the sofa.

"I'll just do the beds first. It's on the schedule."

"The schedule is mine," Constance said, "and I'm cancelling it."

"Then I'll start with the cushions."

I turned down the corner of the sofa cushion beside the man in the grey suit and put a chocolate mint on his knee.

He looked at it.

"Thank you," he said.

"Sleep well."

Thatcher's mouth did something at the window.

Constance set down her cup.

"Thatcher, this is my doctor's colleague. He's here to talk about rest."

"I'm rested."

"You're not, darling. You talk to the ceiling."

My stomach went tight.

"I've had three reports from staff," she said gently. "A man who is alone with a ceiling for hours is not well."

"It's a hotel," I said. "The ceiling has a smoke detector. Everyone talks to it."

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