The Maid's Diary(42)
Very quietly, she says, “So maybe you are who you say you are, lady, or maybe you’re not, but I will tell you this. It wasn’t his lawyers. It was her lawyers. It was her.”
“What do you mean?”
She inhales deeply. “She made me sign the NDA. Jon Rittenberg didn’t know anything about it. He knows he raped me because he did. But now he just thinks I made the pregnancy part up. Because she cleaned up after him to protect her own reputation and her family’s name. She tried to intimidate me into getting rid of it at first. I . . . God, I’m going to get into a shit ton of trouble for saying this if you let it get out, but it wasn’t explicitly part of the gag order—her lawyers don’t even know this part—”
“What part?”
“She first tried to intimidate me, tried to frighten me away. Tried to make me crazy. She harassed me, spooked me, by sending me GIFs of a Chucky doll with a knife and the words: ‘It’s not all child’s play—die baby, die, die, die. I hope your baby dies.’” A pause. “I don’t know what you want with the Rittenbergs, Kit, but be careful. You might think Jon Rittenberg is bad, and he is, but he’s just your generic entitled male asshole. His wife, though—Daisy Rittenberg—she’s dangerous.”
DAISY
October 18, 2019. Friday.
Thirteen days before the murder.
Daisy is careful. She’s cooking a nice but simple supper of fish that she picked up at the market on her way home from lunch with Vanessa. Jon called earlier to say he would bring takeout, but she told him she was happy to cook. As she melts butter in the pan, her mind churns over the note left inside her BMW.
There was no sign of a break-in. And she’s certain she beeped the lock open as she approached her car, and that it was locked. The only other person who has a set of keys to her BMW is Jon. And Jon would not mess with her head like that. It’s out of the question. Isn’t it? All Daisy can deduce is perhaps she was mistaken—maybe she did leave her car unlocked. Even so, the fact someone knew she was parked near the bistro . . . it must’ve been because she posted the hashtag, #BidingTimeTillBistroLunch. One of the trolls must have seen it before she deleted the post.
What frightens her more is that a troll is physically stalking her.
Daisy jumps as the butter catches and smokes. She whips the pan off the stove and curses. She pours out the burned butter and starts again. As the new pat of butter melts, Daisy resolves to hold off posting on Instagram for a while. And she’ll reconfigure her privacy settings. Maybe the trolls will forget about her. As she squeezes fresh lemon juice into the butter and tastes it, her mind spirals back to the Chucky GIF.
That’s what’s really messing with her head. Chucky.
Only one person in this world would know what Chucky means to Daisy.
But it could be coincidence. Chucky is a common horror meme—a ubiquitous GIF to denote nasty things. It’s just her own guilt that’s turning a coincidental Chucky into a real monster. It’s nothing. Nothing. It’s going to be fine. And she certainly cannot tell Jon. The best thing is to stay off social media for a while. Like Vanessa.
Her mind goes to Vanessa and Haruto.
It’s worrying her—Haruto’s angry grip on Vanessa’s arm. The fear in her friend’s eyes. Daisy pours the lemon-butter sauce into a small serving dish and sets it on the warmer. She reaches for the sharpest knife in the block to fillet the fish. As she slices and peels gray skin away from delicate pink flesh, she decides she will talk to Vanessa about Haruto. She’ll broach the topic, delicately, of course, coming at it in a circuitous way.
She starts pulling fine bones out of the glistening flesh, humming to herself.
Perhaps she’ll even confess to Vanessa something personal. To break the ice. It will show Vanessa her friend is vulnerable, too, and can be trusted, and it might make it easier for Vanessa to spill on her husband.
Daisy hears Jon’s Audi in the driveway. Her heart spasms. The outside security light flares on. Hurriedly, she sets down the sharp blade, wipes her hands, and lights the candles. She puts on a playlist of soft, jazzy music. For an instant she worries she has taken too much care—the last thing she needs is to be accused of creating an Instagram dinner.
Quickly, Daisy plops the fish fillets into the hot pan. The wine is chilling. For him, of course. She’s not drinking right now.
Jon enters carrying a pile of mail, his briefcase, and a monstrous bouquet of red roses. Daisy adores roses. It’s why she wanted to keep the name Rose Cottage even though the house has been updated and no longer looks remotely like a cottage.
He sets the pile of mail on the counter, kisses her, and presents her with the roses.
“Damn, it smells good in here, love—I’m ravenous.” He smiles that charming smile of his, and Daisy’s heart lightens. He holds her tummy. “How’s our little man doing?”
“Kicking like a football player.” She fetches a vase and fills it with water. Jon carries his briefcase upstairs to his office and returns with his sleeves rolled up, his tie off, looking relaxed. It’s good to see him like this again. But it’s a fragile moment, and Daisy is cautious, even a little suspicious.
She carries the dishes to the table. Jon opens the wine. He makes approving noises as he tastes her cooking. And while they eat, she waits for him to broach the sensitive topic of the promotion. But he doesn’t. So she refrains from asking. Jon relaxes visibly with each additional sip of wine.