The Maid's Diary(41)

She’s immediately suspicious. This is not surprising.

“I read about you in the newspapers,” I say carefully. “Women like us, we need to have each other’s backs. Do you know what I mean?”

She’s silent for a while. I hear music in the background. I hear voices.

“What did you say your name was?”

I hesitate, clear my throat, and say it: “Katarina Popovich. But everyone calls me Kit. My married name is Darling, but I’m divorced now.” It’s been a long time since I’ve introduced myself as Katarina Popovich, and it has a strange effect on me. I feel something shift inside—the old Katarina taking up more space, trying to meld herself with the newer, happier “Kit.” I worry I’m making a huge mistake in reawakening Katarina. I fear I won’t come back from this—that this right here is my point of no return. My hill I will die on. But finding myself inside Jon Rittenberg’s house—seeing those big paintings of him coming down the mountain at me—it’s fundamentally changed everything. There can be no turning back now. Even if I try. I know this instinctively.

“Kit.” Charley repeats my name, and I sense the wheels of her brain churning, trying to figure me out. But she hasn’t killed the call yet. This is a positive sign. She says, “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on a smoke break. Make it quick.”

So she’s curious. Good, this is all I ask. She can take it or leave it, but I just want her to listen, and to consider my questions. If she balks, maybe she’ll still talk at a later date after the idea sits with her awhile.

“Look, Charley, all I know is what I read in the papers—are you okay with me calling you Charley?”

“Everyone does.”

“Okay. While reading some online news from a year ago, I came across an article where Jon Rittenberg claimed you were stalking him and his wife. You, on the other hand, accused Jon of sexual assault—of spiking your drink and making you pregnant. You filed your accusation after you were arrested on Jon Rittenberg’s property and charged for stalking and harassment. Police later dropped all the charges. You in turn dropped all sexual assault allegations and said you’d fabricated the whole thing. You apparently agreed to get psychological help. What really happened?”

“What in the fuck? What the hell do you want? Why are you asking me this? It happened over a year ago. Are you media? Did she put you up to this?”

My pulse quickens. “Who’s ‘she’?”

Silence.

I’m losing her—she’s going to hang up.

Quickly, I say, “Look, I believe you, Charley. I believe your story—the original one. The one you retracted. I believe it’s the truth and . . .” My voice hitches. I’m suddenly scared. But there really is no about-face now. “I’m not a reporter. I . . . okay, I wasn’t exactly truthful, either. I’m not an ex-employee of Jon Rittenberg’s. I still work for him. I clean his house. I’m a maid.” I hesitate. Charley’s still listening. “And I need some help because I—I know he’s done this before. I think he’s done this many times before. After finding your stories, I know I’m not alone.”

There is a long silence. “Has he done something to you?”

This time it’s me who remains quiet.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think so. I—I needed to talk to someone. I had a feeling he’s done this before. I’m not sure what to do. I’m afraid if I make a complaint, they could drag me through shit like they did to you.”

“How do I know you are who you say you are? Why should I even begin to trust you?”

“You don’t have to. But I also couldn’t not reach out. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I—”

“Wait.” She curses. “Look. I want to believe you. But even if I wanted to talk, I can’t. I’m bound by a gag order. I signed a nondisclosure statement. Both parties did.”

My heart starts to hammer. Sweat prickles. Jackpot—I’ve hit the freaking jackpot. I knew it!

“An NDA? They made you sign an NDA?”

“I can’t talk about it. I got money and I signed a gag order. That’s all I will say.”

I take in a deep, steadying breath, trying to tamp down my excitement. “Okay,” I say softly. “How about I just put something out here. No need to agree, but if I’m wrong, feel free to hang up. Will you do that? Just hear me out?”

I can hear someone calling her name.

“My break is almost up. I need to go.”

“Wait! Please. Tell me what happened to your baby. I believe you—that he made you pregnant. Did they make you get rid of it? Was that part of the money deal? Did he pay you to have an abortion, retract your accusation, and they in turn dropped stalking charges? He treated you like shit, Charley, and I bet that he said ‘it never happened.’ Did I get that right?”

She swears viciously on the other end. I hear her clearing her throat, then blowing her nose.

“Charley, I understand if you stalked him. I do. I really do. These things make a person crazy. Especially the spiked-drink shit, because you start questioning your own memories even as everyone is questioning you and your motivations. But you don’t deserve this. No woman deserves this.”