Story code: ST-001390
Part 2: The Red Eye
The grandfather clock chimed the quarter-hour, the brassy sound echoing down the hallway. It snapped Mateo out of his paralysis. He forced his thumb to lock the screen, shoving the phone deep into his coat pocket before his trembling hands could betray him. He pulled the zipper of his coat the rest of the way up, the metal teeth catching slightly in his rush.
“Is everything all right with your ride, Mateo?” Arthur’s voice was soft, laced with the polite concern of a host who didn’t want to overstep. The elderly man had paused in his slow, methodical clearing of the small table, a dessert plate balanced in one trembling hand.
Mateo swallowed the dry panic in his throat. He summoned the calm, professional tone that had kept him invisible and highly rated for two years. “Everything is perfectly fine, Arthur. Brenda just sent a quick message. She asked if I could check the side garage to make sure the exterior door is locked. Just a precaution with the wind.”
Arthur smiled warmly, shaking his head. “Oh, Brenda. Always worrying about the property. That old door sticks terribly, you know. You really have to put your shoulder into the frame to make the latch catch. Let me come show you.”
“No, please,” Mateo said quickly, stepping forward and raising a hand. “Stay here where it is warm. I will be right back. It will only take a moment.”
Arthur hesitated, then nodded, setting the plate down. “Very well. But do be quick. The draft in there is miserable.”
Mateo turned and walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway toward the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every step felt heavy. The threat of immigration enforcement wasn’t just a distant, abstract fear-it was a sudden, gaping trapdoor beneath his carefully constructed life. The fake ID had cost him three months’ wages. It was the only thing allowing him to rent his tiny apartment and afford the heating bills. If Brenda made that call, it wouldn’t just mean a lost account. It meant detention. It meant losing everything he had built in the quiet margins of the city.
He pushed through the heavy wooden door into the attached side garage. The temperature dropped instantly, the air here smelling of old motor oil, damp cardboard, and freezing dust. It was completely dark save for the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside, filtering through a single, grime-covered window. Mateo fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the cluttered space with a flickering fluorescent bulb.
He saw the ladder immediately. It was a heavy, twenty-foot aluminum extension ladder hung horizontally on two rusted brackets against the cinderblock wall.
Mateo walked over to the side door Arthur had mentioned. He gripped the handle, shoved his shoulder against the warped wood, and pushed it open.
The wind hit him like a physical blow, howling as it drove freezing rain into his face. He stepped out onto the narrow strip of driveway, and his boot immediately slipped. He caught himself on the doorframe just before his knee slammed into the concrete. The entire driveway was paved in a solid, frictionless sheet of black ice.
Squinting against the stinging sleet, Mateo looked up at the roofline. The gutters were two stories up, completely encased in a thick, continuous block of ice. Massive, jagged icicles hung from the aluminum lip like a row of glass teeth. Even on a dry summer day, reaching them with an old ladder on an angled driveway would be risky. Tonight, it was a guaranteed death sentence. If the ladder didn’t slide out from under him on the ice, the freezing wind would tear him right off the rungs.
Shivering violently, Mateo stepped back inside and pulled the door shut, leaning his weight against it until the stubborn latch finally clicked. He pulled his phone out with numb, wet fingers. He typed rapidly, desperately trying to appeal to logic.
*Brenda, I am looking at the roof right now. The driveway is a sheet of ice. I cannot safely position a ladder. I do not have proper boots or a harness. If I climb up there, I will fall and be seriously injured.*
He stared at the screen, watching the three gray dots bubble up almost instantly. She was already typing.
*Not my problem,* the message read. *I pay for a premium service. You are there to assist with household needs. Put the ladder up. I’m watching the driveway camera. I expect to see you on the roof in two minutes.*
Mateo’s blood ran cold. He spun around, staring at the exterior wall of the garage. He pushed the side door open just a fraction and peeked out. There, mounted directly above the garage frame, was a small, black security camera. A faint ring of red infrared lights glowed in the darkness.
She was watching him. She had been watching the driveway this whole time. That was how she knew exactly when his shift was ending. The realization made his stomach churn with a sickening mixture of violation and profound helplessness. She wasn’t just being difficult; she was actively enjoying the power trip, safely orchestrating his humiliation from her warm apartment in the city.
“Mateo? What on earth are you doing with the door open?”
Mateo jumped, nearly dropping his phone. Arthur stood in the doorway leading back to the kitchen, clutching his thin wool cardigan around his chest. The old man’s eyes fell on the heavy aluminum ladder on the wall, then moved to Mateo’s wet coat and pale face.
“I am just checking the latch, Arthur,” Mateo lied, stepping quickly away from the ladder. “You should go back inside, it is freezing.”
Arthur didn’t move. The vague, pleasant expression he had worn all evening was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. “She told you to clean the gutters, didn’t she?”
Mateo froze. “No, Arthur, it is fine-”
“Do not lie to me, son,” Arthur said, his voice tightening with anger as he stepped down onto the cold concrete floor in his slippers. “She tried to make the neighbor’s boy do it last year during a storm, and he nearly broke his collarbone. I will not have it. You cannot go up there.”
“Arthur, please,” Mateo whispered, glancing frantically at the closed side door, hyper-aware of the camera outside. “I have to do what she says.”
“You most certainly do not,” Arthur snapped, reaching into the pocket of his cardigan and pulling out an old, bulky mobile phone. “I am calling her right now. I am putting an end to this nonsense. She has no right to treat people this way.”
Panic exploded in Mateo’s chest. If Arthur called Brenda and undermined her authority, she would lash out instantly. She would see it as Mateo turning her father against her. She wouldn’t just dispute the app charge out of spite-she would make the call to immigration immediately to punish him for his defiance.
“Arthur, no, wait!” Mateo lunged forward, grabbing the old man’s frail wrist just as Arthur flipped the phone open. “You can’t call her. Please.”
Arthur looked down at Mateo’s hand gripping his wrist, his wrinkled brow furrowing in confusion and alarm. “Mateo, let go of me. What is wrong with you?”
Mateo held on, breathing hard, trapped between the terrified old man in front of him and the glowing red eye of the camera outside. If he let go, Arthur would make the call and destroy Mateo’s life. But if he held on, he was just a desperate, undocumented stranger physically restraining an elderly man in his own home.