The Maid(52)

“Please excuse me. I’m not properly dressed,” I say. I clutch at the collar of my pajamas, which used to be Gran’s—pink flannel with a delightful array of multicolored teapots all over them. This is no way to greet guests, even ones impolite enough to arrive unannounced at an inconvenient hour of the morning.

“Molly,” Detective Stark says, stepping in front of the young officer. “You’re under arrest for unlawful possession of a firearm, possession of drugs, and first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future.”

My head is spinning, the floor is tilting under my feet. Tiny teapots spin before my eyes. “Would anyone like a cup of…” But I can’t finish the question, because my vision dims.

The last thing I remember is my knees turning to marmalade and all the world fading to black.

When I come to, I’m in a holding cell, lying down on a tiny gray cot. I remember my front door, opening it, and the shock of my rights being read to me just like on TV. Was that real? I sit up slowly. I take in the small room with bars. Yes, it’s all real. I’m in a jail cell, probably in the basement of the same station I’ve visited twice before for questioning.

I take a few breaths, willing myself to remain calm. It smells dry and dusty. I’m still wearing my pajamas, which strikes me as entirely unsuitable apparel for this particular situation. The cot I’m sitting on is stained with what Gran would call “unresolvable dirt”—smeared blood and some yellow circular stains that could be many things that I don’t want to think about. This cot is an example of a perfectly serviceable item that should immediately be disposed of because there is simply no way to restore it to a state of perfection.

How sanitary is the rest of this cell? I wonder. It occurs to me that a far worse job than being a hotel maid would be working as a janitor in such a place. Imagine the plethora of bacteria and filth that has accumulated here over the years. No, I cannot focus on that.

I put my slippered feet on the floor.

Count your blessings.

My blessings. I’m about to start at number one, but when I look down at my hands, I see they are besmirched. Stained. I have dark black ink marks on every finger. It comes back to me then. Lying on this cot in this cramped, germ-infested cell, two police officers guiding each of my fingers toward a jet-black ink blotter. They didn’t even have the decency to allow me to wash my hands after, though I did ask. After that I don’t remember much. Perhaps I fainted again. It’s hard to say how long ago that was—it could have been five minutes or five hours.

Before I can think about anything else, the young police officer who was at my door at home appears on the other side of the cell bars.

“You’re awake,” he says. “You’re at the police station, do you understand? You passed out at your front door and in here too. We read you your rights. You’re under arrest. Multiple charges. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I say. I can’t recall what exactly I’ve been arrested for, but I know it most certainly has to do with the death of Mr. Black.

Detective Stark appears beside the young officer. She’s in plainclothes now, but this does nothing to alter the dread I feel the moment her eyes meet mine. “I’ll take it from here,” she says. “Molly, come with me.”

The young officer turns a key in the cell door and holds it open for me.

“Thank you,” I say as I pass.

Detective Stark leads the way. Behind me, the young officer follows, making sure I’m hemmed in. I’m escorted down a hallway with three other cells. I try not to look inside them, but it’s futile. I catch a glimpse of a sallow-faced man with sores on his face, holding on to the bars of his cell. Opposite him a young woman in torn clothing lies crying in her cot.

Count your blessings.

We go up some stairs. I avoid touching the railings, which are coated with filth and grime. Eventually, we arrive at a familiar room that I’ve visited twice before. Detective Stark flicks on the lights.

“Sit,” she orders. “You’ve been here so often it must feel like home.”

“It’s nothing like home,” I say, my voice like a blade, cutting and sharp. I sit in the wobbly chair behind the dirty, white table, careful not to touch my back against the rest. My feet are cold despite my fuzzy slippers.

The young officer walks in with a coffee in a dastardly Styrofoam cup, two creamers, and a muffin on a paper plate. And a metal spoon. He puts all of this down on the table, then leaves. Detective Stark closes the door behind him.

“Eat,” she says. “We don’t want you passing out again.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” I reply, because you’re supposed to say something complimentary when offered food. I don’t believe she’s being authentically caring, but it hardly matters. I’m ravenous. My body craves sustenance. I need it to carry on, to get me through what’s next.

I pick up the spoon, turn it over in my hand. There’s a dried clump of gray matter on the underside. I put it down immediately.

“Do you take cream in your coffee?” Detective Stark asks. She’s taken a seat across from me at the table.