Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

The Mitchell estate was silent when Christopher entered at 5:45 PM.

The maid, Maria, looked at him with pity and quickly looked away. "She's in the music room, Mr. Chris."

Christopher walked down the hall. The double doors to the music room were open.

Hillary was sitting at the grand piano. She wasn't playing. She was just pressing one key, over and over. A low A.

Bong. Bong. Bong.

Christopher stood in the doorway. "You froze the card."

Hillary didn't turn around. "That card is for my husband. My husband isn't a college boy's sidekick."

"It's a breach of contract," Christopher said. "I need transport. I need food."

Hillary spun around on the bench. Her face was twisted. "Are you sleeping with her?"

Christopher blinked. "What?"

"Brielle. Are you sleeping with her?"

"No," Christopher said. "She's... a client. Like you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hillary stood up. She walked toward him. "Like me?"

"It's a job, Hillary. Being with her is a job. Being with you... was a job."

He said it simply. Brutally.

Hillary flinched as if he had slapped her. "I gave you a home. I gave you a life."

"You gave me a role," Christopher said. "And I played it."

Hillary's hand raised. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scratch that indifferent look off his face. But she stopped.

She lowered her hand. She smoothed her skirt. The ice returned.

"Get out of my sight," she whispered. "Sleep in the servant's quarters. The basement room. You don't deserve the guest room."

Christopher nodded. "Fine."

He turned and walked away.

He went down the narrow stairs to the basement. The room was small, cold, and smelled of damp concrete. It was familiar. It smelled like the foster homes.

He sat on the narrow cot. He pulled his MP3 player from his pocket-an old iPod Classic he had hidden for years.

He put the wired earbuds in. He scrolled to a file named Lullaby_Unknown. It wasn't his music. It was a recording he had found years ago, a simple, haunting melody.

He pressed play.

He closed his eyes. He began to hum along. It wasn't a performance. It was a self-soothing mechanism, a low, vibration in his chest that helped regulate his breathing. He hummed the simple, repetitive tune, his voice cracking slightly with exhaustion.

Upstairs, Hillary couldn't sleep.

She paced the hallway. She felt humiliated. A client. Just a client.

She found herself walking toward the basement door. She wanted to yell at him again. She wanted to fire him. She wanted to beg him to love her.

She reached the door.

She heard something.

A voice.

It was humming. It wasn't perfect. It was raw, slightly off-key in places, but it was filled with a terrifying amount of pain. It was a human sound.

Hillary froze.

Christopher?

Christopher had a flat, nasal voice. Christopher had no rhythm. Christopher was boring.

This voice was... broken. And real.

She pressed her ear against the wood. The humming continued, a mournful loop.

Hillary's breath hitched.

She backed away. She didn't open the door.

She realized, with a terrifying clarity, that she didn't know the man in her basement at all.