Without looking over, she lifted her feet so I could clean underneath them. "You've missed a spot there, Walter," she said, directing me with the point of a manicured toe. I looked down at my own hands, wrinkled, wet. These were the hands that had designed suspension bridges, the hands that had held Marion as her breathing stopped. And now they were on the floor of a marble apartment cleaning for a woman who had never earned a thing.
I pushed myself to standing, my knees registered every year. Ingrid, I said, keeping my voice steady. I'm exhausted. I need to rest. She clicked the television off and looked at me with unconcealed irritation.
rest from what exactly? You don't have a job, Walter. You don't pay rent. You live here at no cost to yourself. The least you can do is contribute a little around the house.
That's what carrying your weight means. I wanted to raise my voice. I wanted to remind her that the furniture she was sitting on had been bought with proceeds from my house, that every surface in that apartment existed because of money I had spent 40 years earning. I said none of it. Without my wallet, my phone, or any access to my own accounts, I had no leverage at all.
If I pushed too hard, they would push me out. So, I went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. That night, Declan came home late and in high spirits. There was a new watch on the counter, an Audemars Piguet, the box still open. "Hey, Dad," he called over.
Make yourself useful and pour me a drink. I got up and poured the scotch. He took it without acknowledgement and turned straight to Ingrid talking about their upcoming trip to Dubai. First class, he said. The Emirates suite.
It was going to be something extraordinary. And what about Walter? Ingrid asked, dropping her voice just enough to suggest she'd forgotten I was standing there. Declan waved a hand. Don't worry, I've got a plan for him.
We'll sort it before we go. A plan for him. Those words moved through me like cold water. I slipped away to my room and lay in the dark while everything in me sounded an alarm. This has had moved past money.
This was about something more fundamental. They had taken my home, my dignity, my freedom, and now they were planning something beyond that. I stared at the closed door. That was when I noticed the lock was mounted on the outside. They hadn't used it yet, but the hardware was there.
I wasn't a guest in that apartment. I was a captive, and if I didn't find a way out before whatever they were arranging came to pass, I was going to end in that room or somewhere far worse. I closed my eyes. For the first time since Marion died, I prayed not for comfort, not for peace, but for a door I could walk through. The days folded into weeks, and the floor floor-to-ceiling windows became their own particular cruelty.
From the glass, I could see movement along the Buffalo Bayou Trail below. Joggers, dog walkers, ordinary people conducting the free business of their mornings. I stood with my forehead nearly touching the glass, and watched them the way something captive watches the world outside its enclosure. My entire existence had compressed to the footprint of that penthouse. Every hour was organized around whatever Declan and Ingrid required of me.