Ch.5: The Interview with God

The study was a cathedral to his ego.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves groaned under the weight of medical journals and first-edition anatomical texts. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, positioned so that the light from the window created a halo behind the man sitting there.

Dr. Julian Thorne.

Seeing him on a screen was one thing. Seeing him in three dimensions, breathing the same air, was visceral violence. My fingernails dug into my palms, biting deep enough to draw blood. I wanted to leap across the desk. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until the light went out of his eyes.

I forced my hands to relax. *I am Mara Kovic. I am a nanny. I am desperate.*

"Sit," he said. He didn't look up from the file in front of him—my file.

I sat in the stiff leather chair opposite him. My knees knocked together, a genuine tremor of adrenaline that I hoped looked like nerves.

Thorne finally looked up. His eyes were a piercing, unnatural blue, like glacial ice. They were the eyes of a man who cut people open for a living and slept soundly afterwards.

"Mrs. Higgins says you're running from something," he said. His voice was smooth, baritone, cultivated for fundraising galas and bedside consultations.

"Mrs. Higgins has an active imagination," I replied, keeping my voice low. "I'm looking for stability. Your agency listing said the pay was double the market rate."

"It is." He leaned back, tenting his fingers. "Because the job is twice as demanding. The child, Daisy, is... fragile. She requires constant monitoring."

*Daisy.* Hearing him say her name made bile rise in my throat.

"I'm CPR certified," I said. "I have experience with asthmatic children."

"Asthma is pedestrian," he scoffed. "This is a complex congenital anomaly. Let's test your instincts, Mara."

He stood up and walked around the desk. He moved with the silent predatory grace of a jungle cat. He stopped three feet from my chair, invading my personal space.

"Scenario," he barked. "The infant is in the crib. You enter the room. She is silent. Skin is mottled gray. No rise and fall of the chest. What is your first move?"

My nurse brain engaged instantly. *Assess responsiveness. Check carotid pulse. Open airway. Head-tilt, chin-lift.*

"I check for a pulse," I said.

"Wrong," he snapped. "You wasted three seconds. You stimulate the subject. You flick the soles of the feet. She doesn't react. Now what?"

"I check the airway."

"Airway is clear. Still no breath. Do you call 911?"

It was a trap. If I said yes, I was a helpless nanny. If I said no, I was arrogant.

"I start compressions," I said firmly. "Thirty to two. I scream for help while I pump. I don't stop until someone with a medical degree takes over."

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. "And if she vomits during compressions?"

"I turn her to her side. Clear the mouth. Resume."

"What if you hear ribs crack?"

"I keep going," I said, my voice cold. "Broken ribs heal. Dead babies don't."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

Thorne watched me for a long beat. He was looking for a slip-up. He was looking for the terminology of a trained professional—words like 'aspiration' or 'sternal rub.' I had given him just enough competence to be useful, but enough rawness to be believable.

"Aggressive," he murmured. "Good."

He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and expensive scotch. He wasn't looking at my hands anymore. He was looking at my face.

He reached out.

I froze, every muscle in my body locking up to prevent a flinch.

His cold fingers touched my chin, tilting my face up toward the light. He scrutinized my features like I was a specimen on a slide. He traced the line of my jaw, the curve of my cheekbone. It wasn't sexual. It was possessive.

"Remarkable," he whispered.

"Dr. Thorne?" I pulled back slightly.

He dropped his hand, a strange, distant look in his eyes. "You have the same bone structure. The same brow."

"As who?"

"My wife," he said softly. "Before the illness took her beauty."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He wasn't hiring a nanny. He was hiring a ghost.

He walked back to his desk and scribbled something on my file. The interview was over. He hadn't asked about my references. He hadn't asked about my past employers. He had checked my reflex for violence and my resemblance to his dying wife.

"You're hired," he said, not looking up. "You start immediately. Mrs. Higgins will show you to your quarters."

I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly. I had done it. I was in.

"Thank you, Doctor. I won't let you down."

"One condition, Mara."

He stopped writing. He looked up, and the 'grieving husband' mask was gone. Beneath it was something sharp, cold, and utterly lethal.

"The East Wing is yours. The Nursery is yours. The Kitchen is yours." He pointed a gold pen at the heavy oak door on the far side of the room. "But you never, under any circumstances, enter the West Wing."

He didn't blink.

"If you do, you won't just be fired."