Page 17 of House of Lies

It took some convincing, but Olivia was jaded enough with her shitty job, her unsympathetic employers, and the devil at Glenmont Manor she was scheduled to start work at today that she eventually agreed to my scheme.

I told her I had years of experience cleaning houses, that forcing her to train me was just an excuse for Janice not to pay me while adding more work to Olivia’s already busy day.

We agreed to split the paycheck. Olivia would go back to town with the tow truck and get the day off while her car gets fixed. I would get half a day’s wages—better than nothing—and no one would be the wiser, especially since Mr. Remington was only expecting one maid to show up, anyway.

It was almost too easy. Olivia nearly threw her uniform at me, and I swear I heard a cackle as I drove off.

Posing as a maid from Shimmer and Shine is not the best plan.

In fact, it’s probably the worst fucking idea I’ve ever had, and I over plucked my eyebrows like a demon when I was a teen.

But I can’t leave. I’ve already come this far. If I turn back now. I’d be breaking the heartfelt promise I made when Detective Lewis left my house the fateful night my mother disappeared.

I swore I wouldn’t stop looking for her. That I’d find out the truth, no matter what. I smooth out the paper Olivia gave me—a copy of the contract from Shimmer and Shine—before folding it up again.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, banging on the door with my fist.

I don’t get it. Why hire a maid, then refuse to let her inside?

Unless I have the wrong address. I came down a very long dirt road to get here, and Google Maps got so confused a few miles back that it almost sent me into a small creek.

Shit.

I turn around and start down the steps, heading for my rental car.

I’ll have to drive back to where Google got so confused and see if there was a different road I missed, because it’s obvious I’m at the wrong?—

“You’re late,” someone calls out in the deepest, roughest, most menacing voice I’ve ever heard.

I yelp in surprise and spin on my heel to face Glenmont Manor’s front door.

I’d expect an estate like this to have servants scurrying all over the place like ants in their little black-and-white uniforms. A butler or five taking care of the Master’s needs. At the very least, a doorman with a British accent.

What I don’t expect is the door to be answered by a 6’3” scowling hulk who’s name most certainly isn’t Alfred.

While I waited for the rental car office to process my application, I did some digging. I’m impulsive, reckless, and stubborn as hell, but I’m not an idiot. Why drive all the way here if I had zero information about the owner?

Unfortunately, Remington is a recluse. All I could find about him online was an article about him purchasing some expensive painting, and another listing him as an attendee at some fancy charity ball…all a few years back.

There was a photo of him with the painting, but it was hard to judge scale. I figured he’d be above average height, but I wasn’t expecting a tower of a man like this.

“Well?” Ethan Remington grates out in a deep voice. “Where are they?”

I let out an unsteady, “What?” as my brain struggles to process what’s happening. There’s a fast, uneven flutter to my pulse that spells trouble if I don’t get my anxiety under control.

“Christ, are you new?” he mutters, his deep-set, steel-gray eyes boring into me. “Where are your papers?”

While I’m struggling to form a sentence, my eyes seem happy to gaze at his tanned and corded arms, his massive hands. It must be warm inside because despite the frigid weather, he’s dressed in thin, tan slacks that do nothing to hide the muscular thighs beneath, and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

I estimate him to be about fifteen, maybe even twenty, years older than me. I can’t decide if it’s his penetrating stare that’s making me feel so off balance, or how he exudes a sense of dark foreboding, like he's about to announce the end of days.

Hey, if he was the leader of a cult, I’d join—even if there was blue Kool-Aid involved.

“Your papers, girl.”

I hastily hold out the contract Olivia gave me, flinching when he snatches it out of my hand. “You must be Mr. Remington.” My voice wavers until I clear my throat.

Dark eyebrows streaked with the odd silver hair quirk up. “So you can speak.” He snaps his hand, flicking open the folded paper, his gaze darting down to read it.

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