PART I

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

ONE MILLIE

“Tell me about yourself, Millie.”
Nina Winchester leans forward on her caramel-colored leather
sofa, her legs crossed to reveal just the slightest hint of her knees
peeking out under her silky white skirt. I don’t know much about
labels, but it’s obvious everything Nina Winchester is wearing is
painfully expensive. Her cream blouse makes me long to reach out
to feel the material, even though a move like that would mean I’d
have no chance of getting hired.
To be fair, I have no chance of getting hired anyway.
“Well…” I begin, choosing my words carefully. Even after all the
rejections, I still try. “I grew up in Brooklyn. I’ve had a lot of jobs
doing housework for people, as you can see from my resume.” My
carefully doctored resume. “And I love children. And also…” I glance
around the room, looking for a doggy chew toy or a cat litter box. “I
love pets as well?”
The online ad for the housekeeper job didn’t mention pets. But
better to be safe. Who doesn’t appreciate an animal lover?
“Brooklyn!” Mrs. Winchester beams at me. “I grew up in
Brooklyn, too. We’re practically neighbors!”
“We are!” I confirm, even though nothing could be further from
the truth. There are plenty of coveted neighborhoods in Brooklyn
where you’ll fork over an arm and a leg for a tiny townhouse. That’s
not where I grew up. Nina Winchester and I couldn’t be more
different, but if she’d like to believe we’re neighbors, then I’m only
too happy to go along with it.
Mrs. Winchester tucks a strand of shiny, golden-blond hair behind
her ear. Her hair is chin-length, cut into a fashionable bob that de
emphasizes her double chin. She’s in her late thirties, and with a
different hairstyle and different clothing, she would be very ordinary
looking. But she has used her considerable wealth to make the most
of what she’s got. I can’t say I don’t respect that.
I have gone the exact opposite direction with my appearance. I
may be over ten years younger than the woman sitting across from
me, but I don’t want her to feel at all threatened by me. So for my
interview, I selected a long, chunky wool skirt that I bought at the
thrift store and a polyester white blouse with puffy sleeves. My dirty
blond hair is pulled back into a severe bun behind my head. I even
purchased a pair of oversized and unnecessary tortoiseshell glasses
that sit perched on my nose. I look professional and utterly
unattractive.
“So the job,” she says. “It will be mostly cleaning and some light
cooking if you’re up for it. Are you a good cook, Millie?”
“Yes, I am.” My ease in the kitchen is the only thing on my
resume that isn’t a lie. “I’m an excellent cook.”
Her pale blue eyes light up. “That’s wonderful! Honestly, we
almost never have a good home-cooked meal.” She titters. “Who has
the time?”
I bite back any kind of judgmental response. Nina Winchester
doesn’t work, she only has one child who’s in school all day, and
she’s hiring somebody to do all her cleaning for her. I even saw a
man in her enormous front yard doing her gardening for her. How is
it possible she doesn’t have time to cook a meal for her small family?
I shouldn’t judge her. I don’t know anything about what her life is
like. Just because she’s rich, it doesn’t mean she’s spoiled.
But if I had to bet a hundred bucks either way, I’d bet Nina
Winchester is spoiled rotten.
“And we’ll need occasional help with Cecelia as well,” Mrs.
Winchester says. “Perhaps taking her to her afternoon lessons or
playdates. You have a car, don’t you?”
I almost laugh at her question. Yes, I do have a car—it’s all I
have right now. My ten-year-old Nissan is stinking up the street in
front of her house, and it’s where I am currently living. Everything I
own is in the trunk of that car. I have spent the last month sleeping
in the backseat.
After a month of living in your car, you realize the importance of
some of the little things in life. A toilet. A sink. Being able to
straighten your legs out while you’re sleeping. I miss that last one
most of all.
“Yes, I have a car,” I confirm.
“Excellent!” Mrs. Winchester claps her hands together. “I’ll
provide you with a car seat for Cecelia, of course. She just needs a
booster seat. She’s not quite at the weight and height level to be
without the booster yet. The Academy of Pediatrics recommends…”
While Nina Winchester drones on about the exact height and
weight requirements for car seats, I take a moment to glance
around the living room. The furnishing is all ultra-modern, with the
largest flat-screen television I’ve ever seen, which I’m sure is high
definition and has surround-sound speakers built into every nook
and cranny of the room for optimal listening experience. In the
corner of the room is what appears to be a working fireplace, the
mantle littered with photographs of the Winchesters on trips to every
corner of the world. When I glance up, the insanely high ceiling
glows under the light of a sparkling chandelier.
“Don’t you think so, Millie?” Mrs. Winchester is saying.
I blink at her. I attempt to rewind my memory and figure out
what she had just asked me. But it’s gone. “Yes?” I say.
Whatever I agreed to has made her very happy. “I’m so pleased
you think so too.”
“Absolutely,” I say more firmly this time.
She uncrosses and re-crosses her somewhat stocky legs. “And of
course,” she adds, “there’s the matter of reimbursement for you. You
saw the offer in my advertisement, right? Is that acceptable to you?”
I
swallow. The number in the advertisement is more than
acceptable. If I were a cartoon character, dollar signs would have
appeared in each of my eyeballs when I read that advertisement.
But the money almost stopped me from applying for the job. Nobody
offering that much money, living in a house like this one, would ever
consider hiring me.
“Yes,” I choke out. “It’s fine.”
She arches an eyebrow. “And you know it’s a live-in position,
right?”
Is she asking me if I’m okay with leaving the splendor of the
backseat of my Nissan? “Right. I know.”
“Fabulous!” She tugs at the hem of her skirt and rises to her feet.
“Would you like the grand tour then? See what you’re getting
yourself into?”
I stand up as well. In her heels, Mrs. Winchester is only a few
inches taller than I am in my flats, but it feels like she’s much taller.
“Sounds great!”
She guides me through the house in painstaking detail, to the
point where I’m worried I got the ad wrong and maybe she’s a
realtor thinking I’m ready to buy. It is a beautiful house. If I had four
or five million dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I would snap it
up. In addition to the ground level containing the gigantic living
room and the newly renovated kitchen, the second floor of the
house features the Winchesters’ master bedroom, her daughter
Cecelia’s room, Mr. Winchester’s home office, and a guest bedroom
that could be straight out of the best hotel in Manhattan. She pauses
dramatically in front of the subsequent door.
“And here is…” She flings the door open. “Our home theater!”
It’s a legit movie theater right inside their home—in addition to
the oversized television downstairs. This room has several rows of
stadium seating, facing a floor-to-ceiling monitor. There’s even a
popcorn machine in the corner of the room.
After a moment, I notice Mrs. Winchester is looking at me,
waiting for a response.
“Wow!” I say with what I hope is appropriate enthusiasm.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” She shivers with delight. “And we have a full
library of movies to choose from. Of course, we also have all the
usual channels as well as streaming services.”
“Of course,” I say.
After we leave the room, we come to a final door at the end of
the hallway. Nina pauses, her hand lingering on the doorknob.
“Would this be my room?” I ask.
“Sort of…” She turns the doorknob, which creaks loudly. I can’t
help but notice the wood of this door is much thicker than any of the
others. Behind the doorway, there’s a dark stairwell. “Your room is
upstairs. We have a finished attic as well.”
This dark, narrow staircase is somewhat less glamorous than the
rest of the house—and would it kill them to stick a lightbulb in here?
But of course, I’m the hired help. I wouldn’t expect her to spend as
much money on my room as she would on the home theater.
At the top of the stairs is a little narrow hallway. Unlike on the
first floor of the house, the ceiling is dangerously low here. I’m not
tall by any means, but I almost feel like I need to stoop down.
“You have your own bathroom.” She nods at a door on the left.
“And this would be your room right here.”
She flings open the last door. It’s completely dark inside until she
tugs on a string and the room lights up.
The room is tiny. There’s no two ways about it. Not only that, but
the ceiling is slanted with the roof of the house. The far side of the
ceiling only comes about up to my waist. Instead of the huge king
size bed in the Winchesters’ master bedroom with their armoire and
chestnut vanity table, this room contains a small single cot, a half
height bookcase, and a small dresser, lit by two naked bulbs
suspended from the ceiling.
This room is modest, but that’s fine with me. If it were too nice,
it would be a certainty I have no shot at this job. The fact that this
room is kind of crappy means maybe her standards are low enough
that I have a teeny, tiny chance.
But there’s something else about this room. Something that’s
bothering me.
“Sorry it’s small.” Mrs. Winchester pulls a frown. “But you’ll have
a lot of privacy here.”
I walk over to the single window. Like the room, it’s small. Barely
larger than my hand. And it overlooks the backyard. There’s a
landscaper down there—the same guy I saw out at the front—
hacking at one of the hedges with an oversized set of clippers.
“So what do you think, Millie? Do you like it?”
I turn away from the window to look at Mrs. Winchester’s smiling
face. I still can’t quite put my finger on what’s bothering me. There’s
something about this room that’s making a little ball of dread form in
the pit of my stomach.
Maybe it’s the window. It looks out on the back of the house. If I
were in trouble and trying to get somebody’s attention, nobody
would be able to see me back here. I could scream and yell all I
wanted, and nobody would hear.
But who am I kidding? I would be lucky to live in this room. With
my own bathroom and an actual bed where I could straighten my
legs out all the way. That tiny cot looks so good compared to my car,
I could cry.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
Mrs. Winchester seems ecstatic about my answer. She leads me
back down the dark stairwell to the second floor of the house, and
when I exit that stairwell, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was
holding. There was something about that room that was very scary,
but if I somehow manage to get this job, I’ll get past it. Easily.
My shoulders finally relax and my lips are forming another
question when I hear a voice from behind us:
“Mommy?”
I stop short and turn around to see a little girl standing behind us
in the hallway. The girl has the same light blue eyes as Nina
Winchester, except a few shades paler, and her hair is so blond that
it’s almost white. The girl is wearing a very pale blue dress trimmed
in white lace. And she’s staring at me like she can see right through
me. Right through my soul.
Do you know those movies about the scary cult of, like, creepy
kids who can read minds and worship the devil and live in the
cornfields or something? Well, if they were casting for one of those
movies, this girl would get the part. They wouldn’t even have to
audition her. They would take one look at her and be like, Yes, you
are creepy girl number three.
“Cece!” Mrs. Winchester exclaims. “Are you back already from
your ballet lesson?”
The girl nods slowly. “Bella’s mom dropped me off.”
Mrs. Winchester wraps her arms around the girl’s skinny
shoulders, but the girl’s expression never changes and her pale blue
eyes never leave my face. Is there something wrong with me that I
am scared this nine-year-old girl is going to murder me?
“This is Millie,” Mrs. Winchester tells her daughter. “Millie, this is
my daughter, Cecelia.”
Little Cecelia’s eyes are two little pools of the ocean. “It’s nice to
meet you, Millie,” she says politely.
I’d say there’s at least a twenty-five percent chance she’s going
to murder me in my sleep if I get this job. But I still want it.
Mrs. Winchester pecks her daughter on the top of her blond
head, and then the little girl scurries off to her bedroom. She
doubtless has a creepy doll house in there where the dolls come to
life at night. Maybe one of the dolls will be the one to kill me.
Okay, I’m being ridiculous. That little girl is probably extremely
sweet. It’s not her fault she’s been dressed in a creepy Victorian
ghost-child’s outfit. And I love kids, in general. Not that I’ve
interacted with them much over the last decade.
Once we get back down to the first floor, the tension leaves my
body. Mrs. Winchester is nice and normal enough—for a lady this
rich—and as she chatters about the house and her daughter and the
job, I’m only vaguely listening. All I know is this will be a lovely place
to work. I would give my right arm to get this job.
“Do you have any questions, Millie?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “No, Mrs. Winchester.”
She clucks her tongue. “Please, call me Nina. If you’re working
here, I would feel so silly with you calling me Mrs. Winchester.” She
laughs. “Like I’m some sort of rich old lady.”
“Thank you… Nina,” I say.
Her face glows, although that could be the seaweed or cucumber
peel or whatever rich people apply to their faces. Nina Winchester is
the sort of woman who has regular spa treatments. “I have a good
feeling about this, Millie. I really do.