The Maid(72)

“Molly, are you sure you’re okay to walk from here? You know the plan?”

“Yes, Mr. Preston. I’m fine. I’m ready.” I’m saying the words with the hope that the feelings will follow, but the truth is that I’m trembling and the world around me is spinning too fast.

I’m about to step out of the taxi when Mr. Preston puts a hand on my arm. “Molly, your gran would be proud of you.”

The mention of her makes my emotions bubble up, but I will them back down. “Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I manage before slipping out the door.

I watch as Mr. Preston drives away without me.

I walk the last block on my own and wait for ten minutes hidden in an alleyway across from the hotel. It’s eerily beautiful in the late afternoon. The golden light strikes the brass and glass of the entranceway, bathing it in a mysterious glow. The Chens are on their way to an early dinner. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and she’s all in black, except for a bright-pink corsage pinned to her bodice. A young family jumps out of a taxi after a long day of sightseeing, the parents lethargic and slow. Their two children dash up the scarlet steps, holding up souvenirs for the valets to see. It’s always like this at dusk—as if the day is throwing the last of its energy up the steps while the hotel itself patiently waits for the calm of night to come.

The podium is the only spot that’s forlorn and empty. Mr. Preston has not yet arrived. No doubt he’s still downstairs, donning his great coat and hat and signing in early for his shift.

Time is going by unbearably slowly. Nervous tension makes my entire body tremble. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m unsuited to this level of performance. The only thing that gives me strength is the fact that Mr. Preston, Charlotte, and Juan Manuel are in on it.

When you believe in yourself, nothing can stop you.

I’m trying my best, Gran. I am.

It’s time.

I remain where I am, tucked in the alleyway, hiding in the shadows of the coffee shop, up against the wall. At long last he appears, Mr. Preston, smartly uniformed. He walks calmly through the revolving doors and stands at his podium on the hotel landing. He pulls out his phone and sends a text, then tucks it back into his pocket. I lean against the wall even though I know it’s dirty. If all goes well, there will be time for washing later. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll never be clean again.

A couple more minutes go by. Just when I’m starting to fully panic, I spot him down the street—Rodney, walking quickly toward the hotel. I’ll admit that my feelings upon seeing him are mixed. On the one hand, his appearance means things are going according to plan; on the other, the very sight of his lying, cheating face fills me with murderous rage.

He runs up the front steps and stops at the podium. He talks to Mr. Preston. The conversation lasts no more than a minute. Then Rodney heads into the hotel.

Mr. Preston pulls out his phone and dials. I practically jump out of my skin when my pocket starts to vibrate.

I grab my phone. “Hello?” I whisper. “Yes, I saw it all. What did he want?”

“He heard about the press conference,” Mr. Preston explains. “He was asking if I knew who was arrested.”

“What did you tell him?” I ask.

“That I saw Giselle talking with the police. And that she looked upset.”

“Oh dear. That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.

“I had to think fast on my big ol’ feet. You’ll do the same if you have to. You can do this. I know it.”

I take a deep breath. “Anything else?”

“The news conference begins in under forty minutes. We have to be fast. It’s time. Text him now. Proceed as planned.”

“Roger, Mr. Preston. Over and out.”

I end the call and watch Mr. Preston slip his phone away.

I open a text to Rodney:

Help. I’m at the front door of the hotel and they won’t let me in! If I can’t get that keycard for you, whatever will we do?

Rodney’s response is immediate: BRT DGA

What? What on earth is that supposed to mean? I haven’t the faintest clue. Think, Molly, think.

You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.

The answer is literally right at my fingertips. I find Juan Manuel in my contacts and dial his number. He picks up before the end of the first ring.

“Molly? What’s happening? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. The plan is in progress. But…Juan Manuel, I’m in a bit of pickle and I need hasty assistance.” I read Rodney’s text to him.

“You think I know what that means?” he asks. “I feel like I’m on that TV show where you call a friend and they give you the answer and you win big money. But Molly, you called the wrong friend!” He pauses. “Wait. Hold on.” I hear some rustling on the end of the line.

“Okay, Molly? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I checked Google. Rodney means Be Right There. Don’t Go Anywhere. Okay? Does that make sense?”

It does. It absolutely does. I’m back on track. “Juan Manuel, I could…”

I could kiss him. That’s what I want to say—that I’m so grateful I could kiss him. But it’s such a bold and ridiculous thought, so unlike me, that it catches in my throat and doesn’t make it out.