The Housemaid(44)

She frowns. “You forgot to put out the salt and pepper shaker. And unfortunately, this pork chop does need a bit of salt. I wish you would be more generous with the seasoning.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I walk into the kitchen and grab the salt and pepper shakers from the counter. They were roughly six feet away from where Nina was sitting in the other room. I bring them out to the dining room, and despite my efforts not to, I slam the shakers down on the table. When I look at Nina, the corners of her lips are twitching.

“Thank you so much, Millie,” she says. “Please don’t forget it again.”

I hope she steps on a shard of broken glass.

I can’t even look at Andrew. God knows what he must be thinking about me. I can’t believe I was contemplating some sort of future with him. I wasn’t really, but for a split second… Well, stranger things have happened. But that’s out the window now. He looked horrified when she mentioned I had been in prison. If only I could explain…

I manage to make it to the stairs this time without Nina calling me over to tell me that, I don’t know, I need to pass the butter from the other side of the table or something like that. I trudge up the steps to the second floor, then up the darker, narrow set of steps to my bedroom. I slam the door behind me, wishing not for the first time that I could lock it.

I plop down on my bed, trying to keep the tears from welling up. I wonder how long Nina has known about my past. Did she only recently discover it, or did she do a background check when she hired me after all? Maybe she liked the idea of hiring a convict. Someone she could boss around. Anyone else would have quit months ago.

While I am sitting on the bed, feeling sorry for myself, something on my nightstand catches my eye.

It’s a copy of the playbill from Showdown.

I pick it up, confused. Why is the playbill on my nightstand? I put it in my purse after the show, and I’ve been keeping it in there as a reminder of that magical night. My purse is on the floor, leaning against the dresser. So how did the playbill get on the nightstand? I definitely didn’t take it out. I’m sure of it.

Someone else must’ve put it there. I locked the door to the room, but I’m not the only one here who has the key.

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I finally understand why Nina blurted out that I had been in prison. She knows that I saw the show with Andrew. She knows we were in Manhattan together, all alone. I’m not sure if she knows we spent the night at The Plaza, but she knows we weren’t home at eleven o’clock at night. And I’m sure if she’s smart enough, she could find out whether or not we checked into the hotel.

Nina knows everything.

I have just made a dangerous enemy.





THIRTY-ONE





As part of my new daily regimen of torture, Nina has made it her goal to make shopping as challenging for me as she possibly can.

She has written out a list of items we need from the grocery store. But they are all very specific. She doesn’t want milk. She wants organic milk from Queensland Farm. And if they don’t have the exact item she wants, I have to text her to let her know and send her pictures of other possible replacements. And she takes her sweet time texting me back, but I have to stand there in the goddamn milk aisle waiting.

Right now, I’m in the bread aisle. I send Nina a text:

They are out of Nantucket sourdough bread. Here are some possible replacements.





I send her photographs of every single kind of sourdough bread they have in stock. And now I have to wait while she looks at them. After several minutes, I receive a text back from her:

Do they have any brioche?





Now I have to send her pictures of every brioche bread they have. I swear, I’m going to blow my brains out before I finish this shopping trip. She’s deliberately tormenting me. But to be fair, I did sleep with her husband.

As I’m snapping photographs of the bread, I notice a heavyset man with gray hair watching me from the other end of the aisle. He’s not even being subtle about it. I shoot him a look, and he backs off, thank God. I can’t deal with a stalker on top of everything else.

As I wait for Nina to contemplate the bread a little further, I let my mind wander. As usual, it wanders to Andrew Winchester. After Nina’s revelation that I had been in prison, Andrew never found me to “talk,” like he said he would. He has been effectively scared off. I can’t blame him.

I like Andrew. No, I don’t just like him. I’m in love with him. I think about him all the time, and it’s painful to share a home with him and not be able to act on my feelings for him. Moreover, he deserves better than Nina. I could make him happy. I could even give him a baby like he wants. And let’s face it, anything is better than her.

But even though he knows we have a connection, nothing will ever happen. He knows I went to prison. He doesn’t want an ex-convict. And he’s going to keep on being miserable with that witch, probably for the rest of his life.

My phone buzzes again.

Any French bread?





It takes another ten minutes, but I manage to find a loaf of bread that meets Nina’s expectations. As I roll my shopping cart to the checkout, I notice that heavyset guy again. He definitely is staring at me. And more unsettlingly, he doesn’t have a shopping cart. So what exactly is he doing?