A black man, a subordinate, his drunk white female boss in his house, wearing his clothes with no memory of how she got there. It didn't matter what actually happened. It didn't matter that he had slept on his daughter's floor. It didn't matter that he had left a note, left water, left aspirin, done everything he could think of to make sure she felt safe when she woke up. What mattered was the story that would be told.
And he had no control over that story. Rachel's voice was louder now, and Harry caught fragments. Stay right there. Don't leave. Calling the police. get on a flight.
I don't know if I should do that, Cara was saying. I don't know if anything, actually. I just can't remember, Rachel. I can't remember. Daddy.
Harry spun around. Ella was standing in the doorway of her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Good morning, sweetheart. He fought to keep his voice steady. Let's get you some breakfast, okay?
Nice and quiet because our guest is still waking up. But Ella had already spotted Carara through the living room doorway. Before Harry could stop her, she padded down the hallway in her bare feet. "Are you feeling better today, ma'am?" Carara looked up, startled, the phone still pressed to her ear. Her eyes were red and puffy, mascara smeared beneath them, and for a moment, she just stared at the little girl standing in front of her.
I What? Daddy said you were sick last night. Ella tilted her head to the side. My daddy makes really good soup when I'm sick. Do you want him to make you some?
Carara's gaze shifted from Ella to Harry, who had followed his daughter into the living room. Something flickered across her face. Confusion, then calculation, then something else Harry couldn't quite read. Rachel, hold on. She lowered the phone.