Chapter 6: "How Did You Do That?"

Amanda's POV

"If Charles ever found out," I said, keeping my voice even, "that someone had been angling for him while his wife was still alive—and deliberately molding his son into a reason to stay close—what do you think he'd do?"

The superiority drained from Heidi's face. Panic flickered in, then hardened into something ugly.

"You—" She pulled in a breath and started over, her voice dropping. "Enough with the act. You think you're better than me? You think I don't know exactly what you are?"

"I never said I was better than anyone." I spread my hands. "I'm here for the money. I've always known that."

She stared at me, waiting for something she could use against me.

I kept going.

"You're young. Your head is full of Charles, of becoming Mrs. Morrison, of whatever story you've been spinning for yourself." I looked at her steadily. "I'm not like that. The only things that matter to me anymore are money and my daughter's future."

"But think carefully about one thing," I said. "Ethan getting better is the only reason Charles keeps you around. If Ethan stays like this, what exactly is your value as a nanny? The moment you stop being useful, you're replaceable."

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I stepped forward.

"So if you're smart," I said, "you'll work with me. Ethan getting better is good for both of us."

I stopped and held her gaze.

"Now. Please get out of my way."

She stared at me for three full seconds, then shifted to the side. "Ethan cries around everyone except me and Charles. That's just how he is—it's not me blocking you. And don't touch his things. He's extremely sensitive about his belongings. Moving anything can set him off."

She said plenty more. I could see it clearly now—whatever feelings she had for Charles, she wasn't a bad person. With Ethan, at least, she was genuine.

We reached the room. The door was ajar. I eased it open.

The room wasn't small, but it felt spare. A pale gray carpet, a row of toys lined up neatly along one wall—All of them showing any sign of use. Near the window, at a low table, a small child sat with his back to the door.

My first thought was: he's so small.

Three years old, but he looked younger than that—the way Emma did, small and slight from being sick so long. Round head, soft hair cut neat and close, with one little tuft behind his ear that refused to lie flat. He was wearing a pale blue cotton shirt, his shoulders narrow, the whole of him curled over the table and completely absorbed in something I couldn't yet see.

He was holding a marker and pressing it to the paper—not drawing but stabbing at it, hard and repeatedly, each jab darkening the same spot until the paper tore through and the ink bled into a wide, spreading blotch. He didn't stop. His eyes were fixed on the page like it was the most important thing in the world.

Something about the rhythm of it made me uneasy. I crossed the room and crouched down to his level, staying beside him without speaking for a moment. Then I reached over slowly and slid the marker out of his fingers.

Behind me, Heidi sucked in a sharp breath. "Don't—"

Ethan stilled.

I pressed a fresh red marker—same color—into his hand.

He looked down at it, then looked up at me only once—a brief glance, clean and open and utterly unreadable, no wariness, no welcome, just a look. Then he turned back to the paper and pressed the new marker to the surface. One stroke. Then another. A circle, and a few lines radiating out.

A sun.

I stayed crouched there, staring at that lopsided little sun, and felt something tighten in my throat.

"That was wrong of you."

Heidi's voice came from behind me, low and urgent. "You're not supposed to interrupt a repetitive behavior. For children with autism, stereotyped behaviors serve a self-regulatory function. Forced intervention can trigger an emotional breakdown—there's research on this—"

"I know."

"Then why did you—"

"His marker was dry," I said. "He wasn't self-stimulating. He wanted to draw, but the pen didn't work, and he had no way to say so. He wasn't stuck in a loop—he was trying to fix a problem. I didn't interrupt anything. I just gave him something that worked."

A pause settled between us.

"You got lucky," she said. "You can't read a child like that from a single interaction. Autism requires long-term observation and professional assessment before you can—"

"You might be right," I said. "But you don't understand children—any children. It doesn't matter what's different about them. If a child feels seen—really seen—that's enough."

A faint, dismissive sound from behind me. "Lucky," she repeated. Then she left, saying something about warming up Ethan's milk.

I eased myself down onto the carpet beside him and stayed.

That was when I heard it—a low sound from the hallway behind me, a quiet laugh, barely audible, unhurried, carrying something I couldn't name. But it raised the hair on the back of my neck.

I turned around.

Charles stepped out from around the corner of the hallway, still in that dark suit, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, a faint trace of exhaustion around his eyes—like he'd landed and come straight here without stopping to change. I blinked. "Mr. Morrison? I thought you were in Las Vegas."

He didn't answer.

He walked toward me down the hallway, steady and unhurried, and I stepped back on instinct until my back met the doorframe. He stopped directly in front of me—close, closer than I'd expected—and he had nearly a full head of height on me.

At this distance I could see the line of his collar, the faint shadows fatigue had carved under his eyes, the look of someone who had traveled a long way and hadn't quite arrived yet. But his eyes were sharp.

His gray eyes found my face—and this time, they weren't assessing. They were trying to figure something out.

I didn't step back again. The doorframe was already against my spine.

He tilted his head down slightly, his voice calm, the tone of someone working through a question that genuinely interested him.

"Amanda," he said. "How did you do that?"