The General (Professionals 4)

“You must be exhausted,” I said as we moved back into the hallway. And, upon closer inspection, he looked it too. His eyes were small, his skin pale. He was going almost two full days without rest.

“I’m starting to feel it,” he agreed as we moved down the stairs, making our way toward the kitchen where the junk food – and his luggage – was situated.

I’d missed it last time, sitting beside the back door – a giant sand-colored duffle bag under an identical – but more beaten up – green one. The telltale garment bags hanging over a chair must have been the suits Bertram told him to wear.

I generally liked a man in a suit – it was classic, gentlemanly. But there was something about Smith in his rugged clothes that appealed to me perhaps more than a suit. Though there was a part of me that definitely wanted to see how a body like his could hang a suit.

“I’m sorry about the suits,” I told him when he caught me staring.

“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t believe how many clients demand it actually. Even just to be in their presence, not just for special events.”

“It’s ridiculous that we both have to wear a uniform just to live in my house.”

“Speaking of,” he said, latching onto that. “When you get dressed tomorrow, get dressed like you normally would. Do your hair. But don’t put makeup on.”

“Why?”

“A grieving widow might want some normalcy during her grief. Might get dressed to greet guests. But she wouldn’t be ashamed of her cuts and bruises in this sort of situation.”

“Right,” I agreed, nodding. “Got it.”

“Don’t stress about it. It might be a long day, but you are in control now. Remember that.”

“Thank you,” I told him, giving him a nod I didn’t quite feel.

Because, well, it didn’t quite feel like I had control of anything yet. I was still walking on eggshells, hushing my voice in fear of being overheard by staff, worrying what my social circle – and especially Bertram – would think. Compared to all of that, washing my sheets before bed and hiding snack food wrappers deep in the garbage felt like a silly, childish illusion of freedom.

But at least my sheets smelled like fresh laundry detergent, fabric softener, and dryer sheets instead of Teddy’s expensive cologne.

It was the first night in years I fell asleep quickly and easily.

It was Maritza who woke me, well after nine in the morning, knocking, then bringing in tea that she always refused to put sugar into. Even now.

“Missus, I think there might be some guests today,” she told me, walking into my room while I was in it like she owned the place, something that she never would have done if Teddy were around, something that would have gotten her fired, in fact. But because it was me, spineless, tongue-tied me, she moved across the space, drawing open the dark blinds, letting in the harsh morning sun, made all the brighter by the fresh dusting of white snow covering everything that could be seen. “You might want to consider dressing. I know you have had a shock, but it is probably best to get back to life. Mr. Ericsson would have wanted that.”

A shock.

Those didn’t sound like her words. Those sounded like Bertram.

So she was in touch with him behind my back.

Lovely.

That was just lovely.

My teeth ached from how hard I had to grind them together to keep from snapping at her about how I could dress however I damn well pleased in my own house.

“Of course. If she hasn’t already, could you tell Lydia to throw some baked goods in the oven? Madeleines or something.”

Not that any of my guests would actually eat them. Everyone was keto now. Just like last year, everyone was gluten-free. And the year before that, it was all about paleo. Mediterranean. French. Cabbage soup.

Another year, another fad diet that would never last. It was exhausting to even think about it. Quite frankly, now that I could, I didn’t care if I got as round as the goddamn sun.

“Yes, ma’am,” Maritza said, moving out of the bedroom, leaving me alone to slide open my nightstand, unraveling the bag of chips I had mostly devoured the night before, taking a handful and eating it before I went about my morning routine.

Half an hour later, I was showered, hair dried, sitting at my vanity in off-white silk slacks and a fitted navy sweater, looking at my reflection, trying to tamp down the small swelling of insecurity.

The scratches had scabbed over. The one on my split lip had peeled off in my sleep, just leaving a small pink line through my lower lip. The bruising was the worst – stark blue against my skin that was paler than usual. Maybe due to worry and the diet of junk food. I had a brilliant black eye still. A purple smudge across one cheekbone. And then there were the fingerprint bruises at my throat. Luckily, the ones on my arm were covered by my sleeve.