The Housemaid(17)

I’m not sure how to respond. “Um… congratulations?”

“Thank you.” She beams at me. “Anyway, please enjoy the clothes, Millie. Also, I have something else for you.” She fishes around in her white purse and pulls out a key. “You wanted a key to your room, didn’t you?”

“Thank you.” After that first night, when I woke up in terror thinking I was locked in the room, I haven’t given that much thought to the lock on the door. I have noticed the door sticks a bit, but nobody is sneaking up to my room and locking me in there—not that the key would help if I were inside. But I pocket the key. It might be good to lock the door when I leave the room. Nina seems like somebody who might snoop. Also, this seems like a good time to bring up another of my concerns. “One other thing. The window in the room doesn’t open. It seems like it’s painted shut.”

“Is it?” Nina sounds like she finds this to be a particularly uninteresting piece of information.

“It’s a fire hazard, probably.”

She looks down at her nails and frowns at one where the white paint is chipped. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m not sure, but… I mean, the room should have a window that opens, shouldn’t it? It does get awfully stuffy up there.”

It doesn’t actually get stuffy—the attic is drafty, if anything. But I’ll say what I have to if it means getting the window fixed. I hate the idea of the only window in the room being painted shut.

“I’ll have somebody take a look at it then,” she says in a way that makes me think she is absolutely never going to get somebody to take a look at it and I will never have a window that opens. She glances down at the garbage bag. “Millie, I’m happy to give you my clothes but please don’t leave that garbage bag lying around our living room. It’s bad manners.”

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble.

And then she sighs like she just doesn’t know what to do with me.





ELEVEN





“Millie!” Nina’s voice sounds frantic on the other line. “I need you to pick up Cecelia from school!”

I’ve got a pile of laundry balanced in my arms, and my cell phone is between my shoulder and my ear. I always pick up immediately when Nina calls, no matter what I’m doing. Because if I don’t, she will call over and over (and over) until I do.

“Sure, no problem,” I say.

“Oh, thank you!” Nina gushes. “You’re such a dear! Just grab her from the Winter Academy at 2:45! You’re the best, Millie!”

Before I can ask any other questions, like where I’m supposed to meet Cecelia or the address of the Winter Academy, Nina has hung up. As I remove the phone wedged under my ear, I feel a jolt of panic when I see the time. I’ve got less than fifteen minutes to figure out where this school is and retrieve my employer’s daughter. Laundry is going to have to wait.

I type the name of the school into Google as I sprint down the stairs. Nothing comes up. The closest school by that name is in Wisconsin, and even though Nina makes some odd requests, I doubt she expects me to pick her daughter up in Wisconsin in fifteen minutes. I call Nina back, but naturally, she doesn’t pick up. Neither does Andy when I try him.

Great.

While I pace across the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next, I notice a piece of paper stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. It’s a school holiday schedule. From the Windsor Academy.

She said Winter. Winter Academy. I’m sure of it. Didn’t she?

I don’t have time to wonder if Nina told me the wrong name or if she doesn’t know the name of the school her daughter attends, where she is also vice president of the PTA. Thankfully, there’s an address on the flier, so I know exactly where to go. And I’ve only got ten minutes to get there.

The Winchesters live in a town that boasts some of the best public schools in the country but Cecelia goes to private school, because of course she does. The Windsor Academy is a huge elegant structure with lots of ivory columns, dark brown bricks, and ivy running along the walls that makes me feel like I’m picking Cecelia up at Hogwarts or something unreal like that. One other thing I wish Nina had warned me about was the parking situation at pick-up time. It is an absolute nightmare. I have to drive around for several minutes searching for a spot, and I finally squeeze in between a Mercedes and a Rolls-Royce. I’m scared somebody might tow my dented Nissan just on principle.

Given how little time I had to get to the school, I’m huffing and puffing as I sprint to the entrance. And naturally, there are five separate entrances. Which one will Cecelia be coming out of? There’s no indication where I should go. I try calling Nina again, but once more, the call goes to voicemail. Where is she? It’s none of my business, but the woman doesn’t have a job and I do all the chores. What could she be doing with herself?

After questioning several irritable parents, I ascertain that Cecelia will be coming out of the very last entrance on the right side of the school. But just because I am determined not to screw this up, I approach two immaculately dressed women chatting by the door and ask, “Is this the exit for the fourth graders?”

“Yes, it is.” The thinner of the two women—a brunette with the most perfectly shaped eyebrows I’ve ever seen—looks me up and down. “Who are you looking for?”