The Maid's Diary(53)
“Was a paternity test done?”
“The girl went away. I never heard anything more about any baby, so it was clearly a lie. That girl’s accusations could have cost Jon and half the ski team. It would have meant no gold medals for the country the following Olympics. She could have destroyed Jon’s future—”
“And yours.”
A bolt of irritation goes through Daisy. “Yes—yes, and mine. Jon and I had plans for the future.”
“But, Daisy, what if the girl was telling the truth?”
Daisy rubs her face. “Look, even if there was an element of truth, my mother gave the girl’s parents a fortune for her college fund provided she retracted everything and stopped making trouble. Her family would never have gotten that kind of money, Vanessa, not unless they won some lottery. They scored in the end. Her mother was a maid. She cleaned hotel rooms and houses. Her dad worked at the sewage plant. If you really think about it, they were lucky Jon never sued them for damages; plus they got a ton of money.”
“Hush money? Your mother paid her parents hush money?”
“I need to go home. I’m not myself today. I’m sorry I ever broached this. Can we just let it go, please?”
Vanessa stares at Daisy. Her gaze bores a tunnel right through Daisy’s head. She feels ill.
“Did you pay off the woman in Colorado as well?”
Daisy pushes herself up to her feet and wobbles slightly. “Thanks for lunch. I need to get home.”
Vanessa stands. She places her hand gently on Daisy’s arm. “I’m so sorry you went through all that, Daisy. Men suck. They can really suck.”
Tears fill Daisy’s eyes. She nods.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I—I’m fine. Honest.”
“What if he ever does something like this again?”
“Jon?”
“Yes, Jon. I mean, guys like him—they don’t change, Daisy, do they? They just learn. They evolve. Adapt. They figure out how to be more careful and how not to get caught next time around.”
She inhales a shaky breath. “If he does, I—I swear, next time I will cut him loose. I’ll sue him to high heaven. I’ll deny him access to our son. And I will win any suit because I—I have insurance. I would use that insurance. A woman always needs insurance when they’re married to men like my husband.”
Softly, Vanessa says, “Insurance?”
Daisy nods, emboldened by Vanessa’s concern, by her own desperate need for Vanessa’s continued approval, her love.
“Someone at the ski lodge party recorded parts of the ‘incident’ on their phone. I got the phone afterward. I copied the footage and made the owner of the phone delete it in front of me. I kept the copy. It’s stored on a flash drive in a safe at my house. I also have copies of the nondisclosure agreements signed by the stripper in Colorado. And I have a copy of the NDA signed by the mother of that girl from Whistler. It all proves Jon did those things. And—” Daisy realizes what she’s saying. She shuts her mouth.
Vanessa leans forward and hugs her tightly. “It’s going to be okay,” Vanessa whispers. “It’ll all be fine.” And Daisy cries.
DAISY
October 25, 2019. Friday.
Six days before the murder.
Daisy drives home in a state. She probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel, because her brain and body feel totally weird. How did Vanessa get it all out of her? How did it even start? Daisy remembers—she slipped by mentioning her fear that maybe Jon didn’t really want a baby.
As Daisy turns into the Rose Cottage driveway, she sees a piece of brown paper sticking out of her mailbox. She drives up to the garage door, parks, gets out of her car, and walks back down the driveway to the mailbox. She needs the air. But she stumbles and almost falls, catching herself on the mailbox. It sends a shock through her. Her heart pounds. Her skin is hot despite the chill autumn wind. She holds on to the mailbox, feeling woozy, disconnected from reality. Leaves skitter around her feet.
She should never have drunk that wine. It went straight to her head in a weird way. She tells herself it’s probably because of abstaining for so long since she learned she was pregnant.
Daisy reaches for the plain brown envelope sticking out of the mail slot. She freezes. The envelope looks exactly the same as the one Jon brought inside last week. No name. No address. Her pulse races even faster. She glances around the neighborhood. More leaves blow off trees and clatter across the sidewalk. A dog walker stands near the corner, holding a leash attached to a Pomeranian trying to pee. Daisy’s old neighbor is on all fours near the sidewalk, deadheading flowers along his fence. A crow caws. She glances up. The bird watches her from the telephone wires. She hates crows.
Daisy moistens her lips and rips the envelope open.
Inside is another A4 piece of glossy photograph paper. Daisy slides it out. Her breath stalls. It’s an image of a carving knife next to a tombstone that says:
RIP BABY BEAN.
At the bottom, printed in block letters, are the words:
IT’S NOT ALL CHILD’S PLAY—DIE BABY, DIE, DIE, DIE. I HOPE YOUR BABY DIES
Fear cracks through her. And right on the back of her fear rides a white-hot burst of rage.
There is one person—just one person in this entire world—for whom these words and images would mean anything.