The Interview

The elevator to the Crawford penthouse took forty-three seconds. I counted. A nervous habit from childhood that my years of professional training had never quite eliminated.

The doors opened onto a foyer designed to intimidate. White marble floors. A single piece of abstract art that I recognized from a museum catalog. Floor-to-ceiling windows that made Manhattan look like a toy city far below.

I smoothed my sensible cardigan and reminded myself why I was here.

Not for the money. Not for the prestige. For Lily.

"Miss Reese?" A woman in her sixties emerged from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Warm eyes, efficient movements, the kind of quiet competence that came from decades of managing wealthy households. "I'm Margaret Chen. The housekeeper. Mr. Crawford is finishing a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

She studied me with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen dozens of nannies come and go. "You're younger than the others."

"I'm twenty-nine."

"The last one was forty-two. Excellent references. Lasted four days." Margaret's expression gave nothing away. "This position is... challenging."

"I've read the file."

"The file doesn't tell you what it's like." She gestured toward a sitting area that was probably bigger than my entire apartment. "Make yourself comfortable. He shouldn't be long."

I sat on a couch that cost more than my car and tried not to think about the ethical implications of what I was doing. Dr. Brooks had arranged this, my mentor, my conscience, the man who'd pulled me out of my spiral after I lost Jamie Thornton.

You can't help anyone if you don't help yourself first, he'd said. And Lily Crawford needs help that traditional approaches aren't providing.

It was true. I'd reviewed her case, off the record, because technically I wasn't her therapist. Five years old. Present during her mother's fatal car accident six months ago. Hasn't spoken since. Four therapists, three nannies, two behavioral specialists. None of them lasted more than a week.

The official referral was for a nanny with "early childhood education background." My cover story was carefully constructed: master's in child development, references from a childcare agency Dr. Brooks had connections with, experience with special needs children.

All technically true. Just not the whole truth.

"Miss Reese."

I stood. The man walking toward me matched his photos but somehow didn't. Ethan Crawford in magazines was polished, confident, the face of a tech empire worth billions. The man in front of me looked like he hadn't slept in months. Dark circles under eyes that should have been sharp but seemed hollow. Expensive suit that fit perfectly but hung on him like he'd lost weight.

"Mr. Crawford." I extended my hand.

His grip was firm but brief. "You're younger than I expected."

"So I've been told."

"My assistant was supposed to screen for experience." He didn't sit, just stood there assessing me like I was a problem to be solved. "What qualifies you to handle a child with Lily's... situation?"

"My master's thesis was on trauma responses in early childhood. I've worked with children processing grief, separation anxiety, and selective silence." All true. Just framed differently than my CV would show. "And I don't give up."

"Everyone gives up eventually."

"Not everyone."

Something flickered in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or just surprise that I'd pushed back. "The previous nannies all said something similar. They lasted an average of six days."

"What made them leave?"

"Lily." He said it flatly. "She doesn't speak. She doesn't respond to normal engagement. She exists in a world I can't reach, and watching someone fail to reach it over and over becomes exhausting for everyone involved."

I held his gaze. "I'm not here to fix her."

"Then what are you here for?"

"To be present. To let her set the pace. To give her space to be exactly who she needs to be while she processes something no child should have to process."

His expression hardened. For a moment, I thought I'd gone too far, the psychology language was dangerously close to revealing my actual credentials. But then his shoulders dropped half an inch.

"You'd be live-in. There's a suite on the opposite end of the apartment. Your responsibilities would include Lily's daily care, activities, meals when Margaret isn't cooking. I travel frequently. When I'm not here, you'd have primary responsibility."

"And when you are here?"

"I work. Mostly from the office, but sometimes from home." He glanced away. "Lily and I have... difficulty. Being in the same space."

The admission cost him something. I filed it away.

"Can I meet her?"

"Margaret." He didn't raise his voice, but the housekeeper appeared immediately. "Would you bring Lily in?"

We waited in silence. The penthouse was quiet in that way expensive spaces are, soundproofed from the city below, insulated from reality. I counted seconds again. Tried not to read too much into Ethan Crawford's posture, the way he positioned himself near the window like he was ready to escape.

Then Margaret returned. And behind her was Lily.

She was small for five, with her father's dark hair and her mother's, I'd seen photos, delicate features. She wore a sundress covered in butterflies and carried a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days. Her eyes swept the room with an assessment far too sophisticated for her age before landing on me.

I crouched down to her level. Didn't speak. Just waited.

Lily studied me like I was a puzzle. Then she walked past me, climbed onto the couch I'd just vacated, and began arranging her rabbit's ears with careful precision.

"Lily," Ethan said. "This is Miss Reese. She might be your new nanny."

No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

"Lily."

"Mr. Crawford." I kept my voice soft. "May I try something?"

He nodded, looking uncomfortable.

I sat on the floor near the couch. Not too close. Not facing Lily directly. I pulled a small sketchpad from my bag, I always carried one, and began to draw. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple butterfly, similar to the ones on her dress.

For three minutes, Lily ignored me completely. Then, so slowly I might have missed it if I wasn't trained to notice, her head turned. She watched my hand move across the paper.

When I finished, I set the drawing on the couch beside her. Not giving it to her, just making it available.

Her small fingers reached out. Touched the edge of the paper. Then pulled it closer.

I didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge the moment. Just started drawing another butterfly.

When I finally glanced up, Ethan Crawford was staring at me like I'd performed a miracle.

"Everyone else tried to get her to respond," he said quietly. "You just... let her come to you."

"Children in trauma don't need demands. They need safety."

"She took the drawing." His voice cracked on the last word. "She hasn't taken anything from anyone in months."

Lily was still studying the butterfly, tracing its wings with her finger. She hadn't looked at me again. But something had passed between us, something I couldn't name but could definitely feel.

"I have a condition," I said.

Ethan's expression shuttered. "Of course you do."

"No therapists. No specialists. Not unless Lily specifically indicates she wants them." I held up my hand when he started to protest. "I know you've invested in professional help. But what Lily needs right now is stability. Routine. Someone who isn't trying to fix her. Give me a month. If there's no progress, you can bring back whoever you want."

"A month."

"Thirty days. No interference."

He looked at his daughter, still absorbed in the simple drawing. Something shifted in his face, hope, maybe, fragile and uncertain.

"Fine." He turned back to me, and the coldness was back. "One month. Starting tomorrow. Margaret will show you the suite and discuss the schedule. I have a meeting in twenty minutes."

He walked away without another word. Without saying goodbye to Lily.

I watched him go and understood something: Lily wasn't the only one in this penthouse who had stopped speaking in the ways that mattered.

Margaret appeared beside me. "Most people take longer to see that," she said quietly.

"See what?"

"That he's as lost as she is." She handed me a key card. "Welcome to the Crawford household, Miss Reese. I hope you last longer than the others."

Lily slid off the couch, still clutching the butterfly drawing. She walked to the window and pressed one small hand against the glass, looking out at a city she couldn't possibly understand.

I didn't know if I could help her. I didn't know if this deception was worth the risk. But watching her stand there, so small against all that sky, I knew I had to try.

Some children were worth breaking the rules for.