Not the clock.
Not the air conditioner.
Not my own breathing.
I looked at Clara as though seeing her for the first time.
Twenty-eight, perhaps twenty-nine. Dark hair usually tied at the back of her neck. Gray-green eyes.
My father had gray-green eyes.
I had never noticed.
“No,” I said.
It came out quietly.
Mother’s expression softened.
“I’m afraid so.”
I stood again.
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“She works here.”
“I know.”
“She applied through an agency.”
“I know that too.”
I looked at Clara.
“You knew?”
She finally met my eyes.
“Yes.”
One word.
That was all it took to make everything inside me turn hard.
“You knew when you came into this house?”
“Yes.”
“You knew who I was?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I didn’t know how.”
A humorless laugh escaped me.
“You found a way to get employed in my home, but you couldn’t find a way to speak?”
