The Housemaid

Prologue

The narrator sits on a burnt-caramel Italian leather sofa in a house that is no longer safe. Police are everywhere, and they have already found what is upstairs. The narrator knows the truth: if they leave this house, it will be in handcuffs. There was a chance to run earlier, but that shot is gone. Now the officers are about five seconds away from reading their rights, and the only mystery is why they haven't done it yet. Maybe they want to trick the narrator into confessing something. Good luck with that.

A detective with black hair threaded with gray sits beside them, his stocky frame sinking into the expensive sofa. The narrator imagines his own sofa at home, something tacky and orange, covered in pet fur and torn seams, and wonders if he is sitting there wishing he owned one like this. More likely, he is thinking about the dead body in the attic.

The detective asks again, in a New York drawl: “When did you find the body?” The narrator pauses, wondering if now is the time to demand a lawyer, but answers anyway. About an hour ago. Then the detective wants to know why they went upstairs in the first place. The narrator says they heard a sound. The detective leans forward, eyes wide, stubble rough on his chin, waiting for more. The narrator knows exactly what he wants to hear: a confession. Instead of giving it, they lean back against the sofa and say, “That's it. That's everything I know.”

Disappointment crosses the detective’s face. He works his jaw, weighing the evidence found so far, trying to decide if he has enough to snap the cuffs on. He is not sure. If he were sure, he would have already done it.

Then a younger officer appears at the top of the staircase. His unlined face is pale, and his long fingers clutch the banister. He calls down to the detective: “Connors. You gotta come up here, now. You gotta see what's up here.” Even from the bottom of the stairs, the narrator can see his Adam's apple bobbing. “You won't believe it.”

Whatever the police have already found, there is more.

Three months earlier

Chapter 1

Millie Calloway sits across from Nina Winchester in a living room so opulent it feels like a stage set. Nina, elegant in her silky white skirt and expensive cream blouse, asks Millie to tell her about herself. Millie chooses her words carefully, mentioning that she grew up in Brooklyn, loves children, and, after a quick glance around, loves pets too. Nina beams at the Brooklyn connection, claiming they're practically neighbors. Millie knows this is a lie, but she's happy to go along with it. She has deliberately dressed for this interview in a bulky thrift-store skirt and a polyester blouse, with her hair pulled into a severe bun and oversized tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose. She doesn't want Nina to feel threatened. She can't afford to.

The job involves cleaning, light cooking, and occasional help with Nina's daughter, Cecelia. Millie confirms she's an excellent cook, which is the only honest thing on her carefully doctored resume. When Nina asks if she has a car, Millie almost laughs. Her ten-year-old Nissan is parked outside, and it's where she currently lives. She has spent the last month sleeping in the backseat, dreaming of a toilet, a sink, and the simple luxury of straightening her legs out while she sleeps.

Nina goes on about car seat safety recommendations while Millie takes in the room: the massive flat-screen television, the photographs of world travels on the mantle, the sparkling chandelier. When Nina asks a question Millie misses, she answers "Yes?" and then "Absolutely," which seems to please her interviewer. The pay is more than acceptable, enough to make dollar signs appear in her eyes, and the position is live-in. Millie can barely contain herself at the prospect of leaving the splendor of her Nissan's backseat.

Nina gives her a grand tour of the house. It's a beautiful place, worth millions, with a renovated kitchen, a master bedroom with a king-size bed, a guest room fit for a Manhattan hotel, and a home theater complete with stadium seating and a popcorn machine. Millie performs the appropriate enthusiasm. Finally, they come to a door at the end of the hallway, its wood thicker than the others, its doorknob creaking loudly. Beyond it, a dark, narrow stairwell leads up to the finished attic.

The attic ceiling is dangerously low, forcing Millie to nearly stoop. There's a small bathroom and then the room itself: tiny, with a slanted ceiling that drops to her waist on one side, a single cot, a half-height bookcase, a small dresser, and two naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It's modest and crappy, which Millie takes as a good sign, because it means her standards might be low enough for Nina to consider her. But something about the room bothers her. The single window, barely larger than her hand, overlooks the backyard. If she were in trouble, nobody would see her back here, and nobody would hear her scream. A little ball of dread forms in her stomach. But the cot looks so good compared to her car that she says "It's perfect" and means it.

Back on the second floor, Millie lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. A voice stops her cold: "Mommy?" A little girl stands in the hallway, with pale blue eyes and hair so blond it's almost white, dressed in a pale blue Victorian-style dress trimmed in white lace. She stares at Millie like she can see right through her soul. Millie thinks the girl could be cast as creepy cult child number three without an audition. Nina introduces her as Cecelia, and the girl says "It's nice to meet you, Millie" with impeccable politeness. Millie mentally calculates a twenty-five percent chance this nine-year-old will murder her in her sleep. She still wants the job.

Back on the first floor, the tension leaves Millie's body. Nina chatters warmly about the house and her daughter, and Millie feels a glimmer of hope. Nina squeezes her rough palm in her baby-smooth hand and says she has a good feeling about this. Millie wants to believe it. But she knows better. Nina is no dummy. She's not going to hire a woman to live in her home and care for her child without a background check. And once she does one, Millie knows she'll never set foot in this house again. She should never have come here at all.

At the front door, the landscaper she saw from the attic window is shaping the hedges with giant clippers. He's a big man with tattoos and dark eyes that lift briefly to meet hers. Millie raises her hand in greeting. "Hi." The man just stares at her. He doesn't say a word. As she walks back through the electronic gate toward her car and her current life, she looks back one last time. He is still watching her. Then he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, like he's trying to warn her. But he doesn't say a thing.

Chapter 2

Millie lives out of her Nissan now, and the routines of that life are brutally simple. No gatherings, no guests, and no easy answer to the question of hygiene. Three days after her eviction, which came three weeks after getting fired, she stumbles upon a rest stop with showers. The privacy is nearly nonexistent and the stalls smell faintly of human waste, but Millie is so desperate to be clean that she almost cries with joy. Now she sits in the back seat eating another ham and American cheese sandwich with a dollop of mayonnaise, forcing down each bite and trying not to think about how sick she is of sandwiches. A cooler holds cold cuts and cheese, a ninety-nine-cent loaf of white bread sits nearby, and the snack options are endless: chips, crackers with peanut butter, Twinkies. She owns a hot plate that plugs into the cigarette lighter for special occasions, but today is not one of them.

Her prepaid flip phone rings in her pocket. It is the kind of phone people only use for committing a crime or for traveling back fifteen years in time, but it is all she can afford. The voice on the other end is clipped and formal: "Wilhelmina Calloway?" The name makes Millie wince. Wilhelmina belonged to her father's mother, long gone, and Millie has never understood what kind of psychopath names a child that. She has always been Millie. She does not speak to her parents, and they do not speak to her, so there is no point in asking them now.

The caller identifies herself as Donna Stanton from Munch Burgers, the greasy fast-food joint that granted Millie an interview a few days ago. The news is not good. The position has been filled. They wish her luck with her job search. Millie's stomach churns around the ham and cheese. She had read online that Munch Burgers did not have strict hiring practices, that even someone with a record might have a chance. This was the last interview she managed to book after Mrs. Winchester failed to call her back, and she is desperate. She cannot eat one more sandwich in her car. She just cannot. So she blurts out a plea, asking if she might be hired at any other location, promising she is a hard worker and reliable. But Donna Stanton has already hung up.

Millie grips the sandwich in one hand and the phone in the other. This is hopeless. Every potential employer looks at her the same way. All she wants is a fresh start, and she would work her butt off if given the chance. She fights back tears, though she doesn't know why she bothers. Nobody will see her crying in the back seat of her car. There isn't anybody who cares about her anymore. Her parents wiped their hands of her more than ten years ago.

A Second Call

The phone rings again, startling her out of the pity party. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and answers. The voice on the other end is vaguely familiar. It is Nina Winchester, the woman she interviewed with last week. Millie bites down hard on her lower lip, unable to understand why Nina is calling now. She had assumed the job was gone, that Nina had already hired somebody and simply never informed her. Then Nina says the words Millie never expected to hear: "So if you're interested, we would be delighted to offer you the job."

A rush of blood to her head makes Millie almost dizzy. It was conceivable that Munch Burgers might hire her, but a woman like Nina Winchester inviting her into her home, to live? It seems outright impossible. She wonders whether Nina checked references or ran a simple background check. Maybe she never got around to it. Maybe she is one of those women who prides herself on gut feelings.

Millie is so stunned that she remains completely silent on the line. Nina has to ask if she's still there. Millie stammers out an answer: yes, she is interested, she would love to work for Nina. Nina gently corrects her. "Work with me." Millie lets out a strangled laugh and agrees. Nina asks when she can start, and Millie asks when Nina would like her to start. Nina answers with an easy laugh that Millie envies: as soon as possible, because there is a ton of laundry that needs folding. Millie swallows and offers tomorrow. Nina is delighted, but asks whether Millie needs time to pack. Millie does not want to admit that everything she owns is already in the trunk of her car, so she says she is a fast packer. Nina laughs again, tells Millie she loves her spirit, and says she cannot wait for her to come work there.

As Nina and Millie exchange details about tomorrow, one thought settles over Millie's relief and cautious hope. She wonders whether Nina Winchester would feel the same way about her if she knew that Millie spent the last ten years of her life in prison.

Chapter 3

Millie arrives at the Winchester home the next morning, after Nina has already dropped Cecelia off at school. She parks outside the metal gate, which is closed and locked, unlike last week when it stood open. The swanky Long Island neighborhood is all gated houses, and Millie, who has never lived behind a gate, thinks it seems like overkill given the low crime rate. Still, she would pick the gate too.

There is no doorbell or buzzer, but the landscaper is on the property again, crouched in the dirt with a shovel. Millie calls out to him. He ignores her once, then slowly gets to his feet and ambles across the front lawn to the gate. Up close he is enormous, at least a head taller than she is, with biceps the size of her thighs. He is also, she realizes, pretty hot: mid-thirties, jet-black hair damp from exertion, olive skin, rugged good looks, and unsettlingly black eyes that make her take a step back. When she explains she is the new live-in housekeeper and Mrs. Winchester is expecting her, he responds with a string of rapid Italian. "English?" he says heavily. "No. No English." Millie tries a charade, pointing to herself, to the house, to the lock. He frowns, steps to the side, and hits a switch. The gates swing open.

Millie gazes up at the house that will be her home: two stories plus an attic, sprawling over the length of a city block, almost blindingly white and freshly painted. It looks like the people here have more money than they know what to do with. The landscaper picks up both of her heavy duffel bags without grunting and carries them to the front door. Millie says "Gracias," which gets her a funny look. She points to her chest. "Millie." He points to his own: "Enzo." He offers a pleasantry in Italian she cannot understand, then seems to struggle with something he wants to tell her. "You..." He hisses a single word in Italian just as the front door begins to unlock, and then he hurries back to the yard and makes himself very busy. Millie can just barely make out the word. Pericolo. She wonders if maybe it means he wants a soft drink.

Nina throws open the door, delighted, and squashes Millie in a hug. She is so glad Millie took the job, she says; she felt a connection, a gut feeling. Millie understands the implication: Nina did not bother to research her. Millie resolves then to be the perfect employee and make sure Nina never has a reason not to trust her.

Inside, the house looks nothing like the immaculate showplace from the interview. The coffee table holds six cups with sticky liquids, crumpled newspapers and magazines, and a dented pizza box. Clothing and garbage are strewn across the living room, and the dining table still holds the remains of last night's dinner. "As you can see," Nina says, "you haven't arrived a moment too soon!" Millie realizes Nina Winchester is a slob. She does not mind. In fact, she likes that Nina needs her. If she makes herself invaluable, Nina is less likely to fire her if, or when, she finds out the truth.

Nina pulls a brand-new iPhone from her purse and hands it to Millie, explaining she noticed Millie's outdated phone and wants a reliable means of communication. She has already added Millie to the family plan. Millie protests that she cannot afford a plan, but Nina waves the objection away. Millie suspects Nina's definition of "almost nothing" is very different from her own.

Footsteps echo on the stairs. A man in a gray business suit stops short at the bottom, shocked by Millie's presence and her luggage. It is Andrew Winchester, and Millie already knows from googling the family that his net worth made her eyes pop. He is a businessman who took over his father's company and doubled the profits. It is clear his wife never told him she hired a live-in housekeeper. Andrew recovers quickly, welcomes Millie, shakes her hand. She cannot help noticing he is incredibly handsome, with piercing brown eyes, a full head of mahogany hair, and a cleft chin. She also notices he is several levels more attractive than his impeccably groomed wife, which strikes her as strange. She respects him for not choosing a twenty-year-old supermodel. He tells her to call him Andrew, and as he says it, something flickers over Nina's face. Her lips twitch, her eyes narrow. Millie cannot figure out why. Andrew keeps his eyes respectfully on Millie's, not dropping below the neck, though she is dressed modestly anyway.

Nina snaps at him to get to the office. He kisses her lingeringly, squeezes her shoulder, and blows a kiss from the front door. As far as Millie can see, they are happily married, and Andrew seems down-to-earth. She says, "Your husband seems nice." The dark, suspicious look returns to Nina's eyes. "Do you think so?" Millie stammers and tries to ask how long they have been married, but Nina ignores the question and instead asks what happened to Millie's glasses. Millie squirms. The glasses were fake, part of her attempt to look more intelligent and serious, and yes, less attractive and threatening. She lies and says she is wearing contacts. She can feel Nina scrutinizing her pupils, searching for the lenses. A muscle twitches under Nina's right eye, and for a moment Millie is scared she will be sent away. Then Nina's face relaxes. She says it is no problem, she just thought the glasses were cute and very striking. Millie should wear them more often.

Millie grabs her bags with shaking hands and says she will get settled upstairs so she can start working. Nina claps her hands together. Excellent idea.

The Attic Room

Millie climbs two flights of stairs, lugging both duffel bags herself while Nina walks ahead, never offering to help. By the second flight her arms feel ready to fall off. She drops the bags on the floor with a gasp of relief. Nina yanks the cord for two bare lightbulbs that illuminate the tiny space. The room, Millie realizes, is slightly larger than a broom closet. It does not matter. Anything larger than the backseat of her car is like a palace. She is obscenely grateful. "It's perfect," she says honestly.

There is a bed, a dresser, a bookcase, and a miniature fridge humming in the corner. Millie crouches and opens it. On the top shelf sit three tiny bottles of water. "Good hydration is very important," Nina says earnestly. She tells Millie she can put whatever she wants in the fridge, but she wanted to give her a head start. Then she mentions she will be preparing for her PTA meeting the next day; she is the vice president. Millie says that is wonderful, because it is what Nina wants to hear. Nina's fingers briefly touch Millie's bare arm, warm and dry. She calls Millie a lifesaver and says she is glad she is here.

As Nina starts to leave, Millie finally realizes what has been bothering her about this room from the moment she first walked in. A sick feeling washes over her. The lock on the bedroom door is on the outside, not the inside. Nina peers at the doorknob as if noticing it for the first time. She explains that the room used to be a closet, so the lock faced outward, and they never switched it when they converted it to a bedroom for the hired help. Millie thinks about what this means: if someone wanted, they could easily lock her in. There is only one window, looking out at the back of the house. The room could be a death trap. She asks for the key. Nina shrugs, says she is not even sure where it is. Millie insists she would like a copy. Nina's light blue eyes narrow. "Why?" she asks. "What do you expect to be keeping in your room that you don't want us to know about?" Millie's mouth falls open. Then Nina throws her head back and laughs. She is just kidding, she says. It is Millie's room. She will get her a key. Millie reflects that Nina has a split personality, flipping from hot to cold so rapidly. It does not matter. This job is a blessing. Millie is going to make it work no matter what. She is going to make Nina Winchester love her.

After Nina leaves, Millie closes the door. She would like to lock it, but she cannot. As she shuts it, she notices marks in the wood: long thin lines running down the length of the door at about shoulder level. She runs her fingers over the indentations. They almost seem like scratches. Like somebody was scraping at the door, trying to get out. No. She is being paranoid. Old wood gets scratched up. It does not mean anything ominous.

The room is unbearably hot and stuffy. There is a small furnace for the winter, but nothing to cool the space in the warmer months. She will have to buy a fan. She opens drawers, checks the little closet, which has just enough room for a few dresses, a couple of hangers, and a small blue bucket in the corner. She tries to wrench open the small window for air. It does not budge. The frame has