TWENTY-NINE

I can’t believe I forgot my phone at home.

It’s a testament to how frazzled I have been lately. My phone is practically fused with my hand, yet I made it nearly all the way to work before realizing that I forgot to bring it. I am stunned that I did that. I may as well have gone to work without a shirt on.

I spend a few minutes debating if it’s worth going back to get it. Nico is back at school this week, and if I don’t have my phone, I’ll spend the whole day worrying if something is going on that I don’t know about. So I turn around and drive back home to grab it. Thankfully, I don’t have any meetings until ten and traffic is light.

I manage to make it back home in a record twenty minutes, and I enter the house through the garage. Martha is cleaning today, which means the house is filled with the scent of her citrus-scented cleaning fluid. She has started bringing her own products, and I love the way they smell. I should ask her where she gets them for future reference.

I have to admit, Martha is amazing. I am still not convinced she isn’t a cyborg, but I’m grateful Enzo insisted on hiring her. I’m also grateful he’s talked me out of firing her.

I check the kitchen and living room, but there’s no sign of my phone. If Enzo were here, I would ask him to call it, but nobody seems to be home except for Martha. I hear her upstairs, running the vacuum. I suddenly recall noticing my phone battery was low and sticking it on the nightstand’s charging station as I was getting dressed. It must still be there.

I climb the stairs, and just as I get to the top, the vacuum stops. I walk down the hallway to my bedroom, my flats nearly silent on the carpet, and I can just barely make out the sound of a drawer opening. I freeze, wondering why Martha is opening a drawer. I do the laundry myself, so that isn’t something she’s responsible for. What could she possibly need from a drawer?

I quicken my steps, but I try to avoid the places where I’ve learned the floorboards tend to creak. I reach the master bedroom, and as quietly as I can, I peek inside.

Martha is in the bedroom, as expected. One of my dresser drawers is hanging open, and she’s peering inside. I hold my breath as I watch her lift out the jewelry box I keep in the drawer. She pries open the lid, and as I watch, she removes a necklace and drops it into the pocket of her slacks.

Wow. I don’t know if I would have believed it if I didn’t see it myself.

“Excuse me!” I speak up.

Martha jumps away from the dresser, letting the jewelry box fall back inside as she slams it closed. “Oh! Hello, Millie. I… I didn’t realize you were still here!”

Is she really going to try to pass this off like she didn’t just steal a necklace out of my drawer?

“I saw what you did,” I say. “I saw what you took.”

Martha always seems so utterly cool and collected. But she doesn’t seem that way now, as her watery gray eyes dart around the room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just folding your clothing for you. I thought I would organize your drawers.”

Yeah, right. “Empty your pockets.”

“Millie,” she says, “remember how you were wrong about the vase? I would never⁠—”

“Empty your pockets.”

Martha squares her shoulders. “I don’t have to tolerate being spoken to this way. You can consider this my resignation.”

She starts to walk past me with her head held high. Not so fast. Before she can get out of the room, I step in her path, blocking her.

“I swear to God, Martha,” I say. “I saw you put my necklace in your pocket, and you are not leaving this house until I get it back.”

Martha is about two inches taller than me and has at least thirty pounds on me. But I am younger and faster, and more importantly, I’m willing to fight dirty if I have to. My son isn’t the only one who knows how to throw a punch. One way or another, I am getting my necklace back.

Her gaze rakes over me, and it takes her a minute to figure out I am dead serious. Silently, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace studded with tiny diamonds that Enzo bought me for my birthday two years ago. Actually, they’re cubic zirconia, and it’s not worth much aside from the sentimental value—but that’s a lot.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I was just borrowing it so that⁠—”

“Get out.”

She wipes her shaking hands on her stiff skirt. Up close, the lines on her face are etched deeper than I thought, and for the first time ever, her gray hair is coming loose from her sensible bun. “Are you… Will you tell Suzette about this?”

“Maybe.”

It would give me some degree of satisfaction to let Suzette know that her cleaning woman has been stealing. God knows why Martha decided to steal from me when everything Suzette owns is better than anything that I own.

She takes a moment to gather her composure, and when she speaks again, her voice does not waver. “If you tell her about me,” she says, “I will tell her about you.”

A vein in my temple throbs. “About me?”

“Suzette would be very interested to know that her new neighbor is an ex-con.”

I take a step back, my heart pounding. My blood pressure right now is probably a billion over a million. It turns out I didn’t imagine it the other day when I thought she emphasized the word “criminal.” Somehow, Martha knows all about my dark past. “How did you find out?” I manage.

“Don’t worry,” Martha says in a maddeningly calm voice. “Nobody else will know your secret. Not unless you talk to Suzette about me.”

I hate that she’s blackmailing me this way, but I have to go along with it. What choice do I have? If Suzette finds out about my past, she’ll tell everyone. I can’t even imagine the awkward PTA meetings.

And what if the kids hear about it? That would be horrible. I don’t want them to know about my past. Not until they’re old enough to understand it, and maybe not even then.

“Fine,” I hiss at her. “I won’t tell Suzette.”

“I’m pleased we have an understanding,” Martha says flatly.

My cleaning woman brushes past me, jostling my shoulder as she heads toward the stairs. I follow her down the stairs and to the front door, just to make sure she leaves without stealing or destroying anything. It’s only as she turns the lock to get out that I notice her hands are shaking.

THIRTY

“You fired her?”

Enzo seems surprised when I tell him about what happened with Martha earlier while I’m making dinner. Since my pasta alla Norma all those weeks ago was not a raging success, I’m making macaroni and cheese for the gazillionth time because the kids will eat it. It’s just easier that way.

“She was stealing from us,” I say. “What was I supposed to do—give her a raise?”

He grabs some dishes from the cabinet next to the sink. He’s not much of a cook, but he’s always game to set the table and load the dishwasher after. “I am just saying, she had a good job here. And with Suzette and Jonathan. Why would she steal?”

“I don’t know,” I say irritably. “Do you think I have an insight into the psychology of a thief? Maybe she’s a kleptomaniac.”

He grins at me. “She never tried to corner me in the bedroom.”

“Not a nymphomaniac. My God.” I roll my eyes. “A kleptomaniac. Like, those people who have a compulsion to steal.”

“That is a thing?”

“I read about it in my psychology class.”

“Yeah…” He pulls a handful of silverware from the drawer, although he never, ever seems to grab the right silverware. Somebody always ends up with two forks instead of a fork and a knife. I’m not sure how he manages that. Even if it was wrong when he took it out of the drawer, wouldn’t he notice that while putting it on the table? “So did you give her a final paycheck?”