The Maid's Diary(30)

“I am sorry,” she said in a written statement provided by her legal counsel. “I erred in judgment. I was never assaulted. I was never pregnant. I deeply regret any harm that I might have caused the Rittenberg family.”

Waters is now subject to a restraining order and has agreed to seek therapy. Rittenberg’s lawyer says his client will not be pursuing any further recourse.

“We wish her well and we hope she gets the help she needs,” Jon Rittenberg said in a written statement. Rittenberg told the Silver Aspens Times that he feels sorry for Waters.

“I don’t understand what happened in her life that drove her to do this. But I was accused of something that never happened. It can wreck lives.”

My watch timer chimes and I jump. I’m breathing so fast I am dizzy. I blink. I feel as though I’m resurfacing through a wormhole. Hurriedly, I save the links to the articles. And I save the “alleged” stalker’s name in my brain.

Charlotte “Charley” Waters.





DAISY


October 18, 2019. Friday.

Thirteen days before the murder.

Daisy seats herself at a rustic table in front of the street window at the Pi Bistro. Her leg jiggles. Her hands twitch. Her back is against the wall and she faces the door. She feels more secure with the wall behind her. From here she can watch everyone inside and also see anyone approaching along the sidewalk.

Jon’s warning snakes through her brain.

You know it’s dangerous . . . Anyone can use geolocation to pinpoint exactly where you are and when you’re there. If you post a photo of yourself in a restaurant as you sit down, by the time your order shows up, so can your stalker.

She should call Jon. She should tell him about the shocking comments on her Instagram post. But she can’t. Not now. Not after the Chucky GIF.

Chucky knows who Bad Mommy iz. Chucky knows what Bad Mommy didz.

She cannot let Jon know about Chucky. That was—is—her secret. Her dark secret. Wives on occasion need to do certain things in order to keep their marriages intact, to keep their lives on track.

Besides, if she mentions terrible comments even in a generic context, he’ll insist she shut the account down. Daisy can’t bear shutting off her Instagram space. What would she have left? She’d have no daily connection, no love, hearts, validation. She needs it all so badly just to keep going. Her life would be so empty. Lonely. Why can’t she be more like the old schoolgirl-teen Daisy? What happened to that strong, snarky Daisy? Her mind loops back to the condescending bitch in the $6.7 million condo. Daisy wants that feeling back—that sense of sticking in the knife and twisting just so.

The bistro doorbell jangles, and she jumps. A group of young people enters. Flushed and joyous with bright fall scarves and windblown hair. Their exuberance is unnerving. Like the dead leaves skittering along the sidewalk are unnerving. Where’s Vanessa? She checks her watch. Vanessa should be here by now.

Daisy flicks her gaze over the other patrons again. They sit close, talking animatedly, intimately. Some laughing. Drinking their pumpkin spice lattes and eating harvest soups with fragrant fresh bread. One man sits alone with a newspaper. Daisy eyes him. Fear rises in her belly.

I’m safe here. I did not post that I was coming here to the bistro. Did I?

She opens her Instagram account again and checks her recent post.

#BidingTimeTillBistroLunch

Panic flicks through Daisy. She did mention it. Anyone following her account would already know she loves the Pi Bistro, which is near Rose Cottage. How could she be so stupid? Hurriedly, she deletes her morning selfie completely.

The bell over the door jingles again. Vanessa breezes in with a rush of cool air from outside. She smiles broadly. Her cheeks are pink.

Relief cuts through Daisy like a knife. As usual Vanessa is perfectly presented. Her long hair has been blown out—brown with honey highlights. Her dress fits, which is more than Daisy can say about her own clothes at the moment—even her special pregnancy clothes. Vanessa wears boots with small heels—no hastily bought discount sneakers for her. Daisy makes a mental note to go shopping for comfortable boots so she can throw the hideous sneakers away.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vanessa says as she unwinds her scarf and slides into the chair opposite Daisy. Her hazel eyes are bright, but as Vanessa settles into her chair, her eyes narrow. “Are you okay, Daisy? You look—is everything all right with the baby? Did the scan and doctor’s appointment go okay?”

Daisy smooths down her hair, fighting the urge to blurt everything out to her friend. “I’m good.” She forces a shaky smile.

But Vanessa’s gaze lasers into Daisy’s. “Are you sure?”

Daisy nods.

“You ordered yet?”

“I—I was waiting for you first.” Daisy secretes her phone under the napkin at her side as she speaks. Vanessa watches Daisy’s hand, then her eyes meet Daisy’s again.

“I was thinking about trying the butternut soup special,” Vanessa says.

“Yes, yeah, that’s fine with me. Soup,” Daisy says.

Vanessa regards her. “Are you certain you’re feeling okay?”

“Fine,” she snaps. Then quickly she dials it back. “I’m hungry, I guess.” She feigns a laugh. “Or hangry, I should say. My mood dips if I don’t eat on schedule.”