The Housemaid: An absolutely addictive psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 2

  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.”

  It’s hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm. It’s hard not to feel that glimmer of hope as she squeezes my rough palm in her baby smooth one. I want to believe that in the next few days, I’ll get a call from Nina Winchester, offering me the opportunity to come work at her house and finally vacate Casa Nissan. I want to believe that so badly.

  But whatever else I can say about Nina, she’s no dummy. She’s not going to hire a woman to work and live in her home and take care of her child without doing a simple background check. And once she does…

  I swallow a lump in my throat.

  Nina Winchester bids a warm goodbye to me at the front door. “Thank you so much for coming by, Millie.” She reaches out to clasp my hand in hers one more time. “I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

  I won’t. This will be the last time I set foot in that magnificent house. I should never have come here in the first place. I should have tried for a job I had a chance of getting instead of wasting both of our time here. Maybe something in the fast-food industry.

  The landscaper who I saw from the window in the attic is back on the front lawn. He’s still got those giant clippers and he’s shaping one of the hedges right in front of the house. He’s a big guy, wearing a T-shirt that shows off impressive muscles and just barely hides the tattoos on his upper arms. He adjusts his baseball cap and his dark, dark eyes lift briefly from the clippers to meet mine across the lawn.

  I raise my hand in greeting. “Hi,” I say.

  The man stares at me. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say “quit trampling my posies.” He just stares at me.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I mutter under my breath.

  I exit through the electronic metal gate that encircles the property and trudge back to my car/home. I look back one last time at the landscaper in the yard, and he is still watching me. There’s something in his expression that sends a chill down my spine. And then he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Almost like he’s trying to warn me.

  But he doesn’t say a word.

  TWO

  When you live in your car, you have to keep things simple.

  You’re not going to be hosting any major gatherings, for one thing. No wine and cheese parties, no poker nights. That’s fine, because I don’t have anyone I want to see. The bigger problem is where to take a shower. Three days after I was evicted from my studio, which was three weeks after I got fired from my job, I discovered a rest stop that had showers. I almost cried with joy when I saw it. Yes, the showers have very little privacy and smell faintly of human waste, but at that point, I was desperate to be clean.

  Now I’m enjoying my lunch in the back seat of the car. I do have a hot plate that I can plug into the cigarette lighter for special occasions, but mostly I eat sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches. I’ve got a cooler where I store the cold cuts and cheese, and I’ve got a loaf of white bread—ninety-nine cents at the supermarket. And then snacks, of course. Bags of chips. Crackers with peanut butter. Twinkies. The unhealthy options are endless.

  Today I’m eating ham and American cheese, with a dollop of mayonnaise. With every bite I take, I try not to think about how sick I am of sandwiches.

  After I’ve forced down half my sandwich, my phone rings in my pocket. I have one of those prepaid flip phones that people only use if they’re going to commit a crime or else they’ve traveled back fifteen years in the past. But I need a phone and this is all I can afford.

  “Wilhelmina Calloway?” a woman’s clipped voice says on the other line.

  I wince at the use of my full name. Wilhelmina was my father’s mother, who is long gone. I don’t know what sort of psychopaths would name their child Wilhelmina, but I don’t speak to my parents anymore (and likewise, they don’t speak to me), so it’s a little late to ask. Anyway, I’ve always just been Millie, and I try to correct people as quickly as I can. But I get the feeling that whoever is calling me isn’t somebody I’m going to be on a first-name basis with anytime soon. “Yes…?”

  “Ms. Calloway,” the woman says. “This is Donna Stanton from Munch Burgers.”

  Oh right. Munch Burgers—the greasy fast-food joint that granted me an interview a few days ago. I would be flipping burgers or else manning the cash register. But if I worked hard, there was some opportunity for advancement. And better yet, an opportunity to have enough money to move out of my car.

  Of course, the job I really would’ve loved was at the Winchester household. But it’s been a whole week since I met with Nina Winchester. It’s safe to say I didn’t get my dream job.

  “I just wanted to let you know,” Ms. Stanton goes on, “that we have already filled the position at Munch Burgers. But we wish you luck with your job search.”

  The ham and American cheese in my stomach churn. I had read online that Munch Burgers didn’t have very strict hiring practices. That even if I had a record, I might have a chance. This is the last interview I’ve managed to book, ever since Mrs. Winchester failed to call me back—and I’m desperate. I can’t eat one more sandwich in my car. I just can’t.

  “Ms. Stanton,” I blurt out. “I’m just wondering if you might be able to hire me at any other location. I’m a really hard worker. I’m very reliable. I always…”

  I stop talking. She’s already hung up.

  I clutch my sandwich in my right hand as I grip my phone in my left. This is hopeless. Nobody wants to hire me. Every potential employer looks at me in the exact same way. All I want is a fresh start. I
’ll work my butt off if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes.

  I fight back tears, although I don’t know why I’m bothering. Nobody will see me crying in the backseat of my Nissan. There isn’t anybody who cares about me anymore. My parents wiped their hands of me more than ten years ago.

  My phone rings again, startling me out of my pity party. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and click the green button to take the call. “Hello?” I croak.

  “Hi? Is this Millie?”

  The voice sounds vaguely familiar. I squeeze the phone to my ear, my heart leaping. “Yes…”

  “This is Nina Winchester. You interviewed with me last week?”

  “Oh.” I bite down hard on my lower lip. Why is she calling back now? I assumed she had already hired somebody and decided not to inform me. “Yes, of course.”

  “So if you’re interested, we would be delighted to offer you the job.”

  I feel a rush of blood to my head that makes me almost dizzy. We would be delighted to offer you the job. Is she serious? It was conceivable that Munch Burgers might hire me, but it seemed outright impossible that a woman like Nina Winchester might invite me into her home. To live.

  Is it possible she didn’t check my references? Didn’t do a simple background check? Maybe she’s just so busy, she never got around to it. Maybe she’s one of those women who prides herself on gut feelings.

  “Millie? Are you there?”

  I realize I’ve been completely silent on the other line. I’m that stunned. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “So are you interested in the position?”

  “I am.” I’m trying not to sound too ridiculously eager. “I definitely am. I would love to work for you.”

  “Work with me,” Nina corrects me.

  I let out a strangled laugh. “Right. Of course.”

  “So when can you start?”

  “Um, when would you like me to start?”

  “As soon as possible!” I’m jealous of Nina’s easy laugh that sounds so different from my own. If only I could snap my fingers and trade places with her. “We have a ton of laundry that needs folding!”

  I swallow. “How about tomorrow?”

  “That would be wonderful! But don’t you need time to get your stuff packed?”

  I don’t want to tell her that everything I own is already in the trunk of my car. “I’m a fast packer.”

  She laughs again. “I love your spirit, Millie. I can’t wait for you to come work here.”

  As Nina and I exchange details about tomorrow, I wonder if she would feel the same way about me if she knew I spent the last ten years of my life in prison.

  THREE

  I arrive at the Winchester home the next morning, after Nina has already dropped Cecelia off at school. I park outside the metal gate surrounding their property. I’ve never been in a house that was protected by a gate before, much less lived there. But this swanky Long Island neighborhood seems to be all gated houses. Considering how low the crime rate is around here, it seems like overkill, but who am I to judge? Everything else being equal, if I had a choice between a house with a gate and a house with no gate, I’d pick the gate too.

  The gate was open when I arrived yesterday, but today it’s closed. Locked, apparently. I stand there a moment, my two duffel bags at my feet, trying to figure out how to get inside. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of doorbell or buzzer. But that landscaper is on the property again, crouched in the dirt, a shovel in his hand.

  “Excuse me!” I call out.

  The man glances over his shoulder at me, then goes back to digging. Real nice.

  “Excuse me!” I say again, loud enough that he can’t ignore me.

  This time, he slowly, slowly gets to his feet. He’s in absolutely no hurry as he ambles across the giant front lawn to the entrance to the gate. He pulls off his thick rubber gloves and raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Hi!” I say, trying to hide my annoyance with him. “My name is Millie Calloway, and it’s my first day working here. I’m just trying to get inside because Mrs. Winchester is expecting me.”

  He doesn’t say anything. From across the yard, I had only noticed how big he is—at least a head taller than me, with biceps the size of my thighs—but up close, I realize he’s actually pretty hot. He looks to be in his mid-thirties with thick jet-black hair damp from exertion, olive skin, and rugged good looks. But his most striking feature is his eyes. His eyes are very black—so dark, I can’t distinguish the pupil from the iris. Something about his gaze makes me take a step back.

  “So, um, can you help me?” I ask.

  The man finally opens his mouth. I expect him to tell me to get lost or to show him some ID, but instead, he lets loose with a string of rapid Italian. At least, I think it’s Italian. I can’t say I know a word of the language, but I saw an Italian movie with subtitles once, and it sort of sounded like this.

  “Oh,” I say when he finishes his monologue. “So, um… no English?”

  “English?” he says in a voice so heavily accented, it’s clear what the answer is. “No. No English.”

  Great. I clear my throat, trying to figure out the best way to express what I need to tell him. “So I…” I point to my chest. “I am working. For Mrs. Winchester.” I point to the house. “And I need to get… inside.” Now I point to the lock on the gate. “Inside.”

  He just frowns at me. Great.

  I’m about ready to dig out my phone and call Nina when he goes off to the side, hits some sort of switch, and the gates swing open, almost in slow motion.

  Once the gates are open, I take a moment to gaze up at the house that will be my home for the foreseeable future. The house is two stories plus the attic, sprawling over what looks like about the length of a city block in Brooklyn. It’s almost blindingly white—possibly freshly painted—and the architecture looks contemporary, but what do I know? I just know it looks like the people living here have more money than they know what to do with.

  I start to pick up one of my bags, but before I can, the guy picks up both of them without even grunting and carries them to the front door for me. Those bags are very heavy—they contain literally everything I own aside from my car—so I’m grateful he volunteered to do the heavy lifting for me.

  “Gracias,” I say.

  He gives me a funny look. Hmm, that might have been Spanish. Oh well.

  I point to my chest. “Millie,” I say.

  “Millie.” He nods in understanding, then points to his own chest. “I am Enzo.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say awkwardly, even though he won’t understand me. But God, if he lives here and has a job, he must have picked up a little English.

  “Piacere di conoscerti,” he says.

  I nod wordlessly. So much for making friends with the landscaping guy.

  “Millie,” he says again in his thick Italian accent. He looks like he has something to say, but he’s struggling with the language. “You…”

  He hisses a word in Italian, but as soon as we hear the front door start to unlock, Enzo hurries back to where he had been crouched in the front yard and makes himself very busy. I could just barely make out the word he said. Pericolo. Whatever that means. Maybe it means he wants a soft drink. Peri cola—now with a twist of lime!

  “Millie!” Nina looks delighted to see me. So delighted that she throws her arms around me and squashes me in a hug. “I’m so glad you decided to take the job. I just felt like you and I had a connection. You know?”

  That’s what I thought. She got a “gut feeling” about me, so she didn’t bother to do the research. Now I just have to make sure she never has any reason not to trust me. I have to be the perfect employee. “Yes, I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

  “Well, come in!”

  Nina grabs the crook of my elbow and leads me into the house, oblivious to the fact that I’m struggling with my two pieces of luggage. Not that I would have expected her to help me. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her.


  I can’t help but notice when I walk inside that the house looks very different from the first time I was here. Very different. When I came for the interview, the Winchester house was immaculate—I could have eaten off any surface in the room. But now, the place looks like a pigsty. The coffee table in front of the sofa has six cups on it with varying amounts of different sticky liquids in them, about a dozen crumpled newspapers and magazines, and a dented pizza box. There’s clothing and garbage strewn all over the living room and the dining table still has the remains of dinner last night.

  “As you can see,” Nina says, “you haven’t arrived a moment too soon!”

  So Nina Winchester is a slob—that’s her secret. It’s going to take me hours to get this place in any decent condition. Maybe days. But that’s fine—I’ve been itching to do some good honest hard work. And I like that she needs me. If I can make myself invaluable to her, she’s less likely to fire me if—or when—she finds out the truth.

  “Let me just put my bags away,” I tell her. “And then I’ll get the entire place tidied up.”

  Nina lets out a happy sigh. “You are a miracle, Millie. Thank you so much. Also…” She grabs her purse off the kitchen counter and rifles around inside, finally pulling out the latest iPhone. “I got you this. I couldn’t help but notice you were using a very outdated phone. If I need to reach you, I’d like you to have a reliable means of communication.”

  I hesitantly wrap my fingers around the brand-new iPhone. “Wow. This is really generous of you, but I can’t afford a plan—”

  She waves a hand. “I added you to our family plan. It cost almost nothing.”

  Almost nothing? I have a feeling her definition of those two words is very different from mine.

  Before I can protest further, the sound of footsteps echoes on the stairs behind me. I turn around, and a man in a gray business suit is making his way down the stairwell. When he sees me standing in the living room, he stops short at the base of the stairs, as if shocked by my presence. His eyes widen further when he notices my luggage.