Page 72 of The Maid's Secret

“Molly,” says Detective Stark, “it’s best you lie low for a bit, just until I get answers on this Maggie woman. I don’t think you should go to work tomorrow. Maybe take a day off. Relax a little.”

“A day off?” I say, barely understanding the concept.

“Just stay home and put your feet up until I give you the all clear,” Stark says.

“Molly’s not going anywhere,” Angela pronounces. “Not if I can help it.”

“Since when do you decide my life for me?” I ask.

“Angela’s right,mi amor,” says Juan. “We’ve all just been scared half to death. Until we know more, you should stay home as the detective suggests.”

“It won’t take long. A day, two max,” says Stark.

“But I have a job to do. Mr.Snow counts on me,” I counter.

“I’ll call Mr.Snow myself and explain,” says my gran-dad. “He’ll understand.”

The truth is in times of trouble I prefer to work. I’ve always found it an excellent distraction. “What will I do all day alone in the apartment?” I ask.

“Clean?” Juan suggests. “The front closet could use a good tidy, and I did see a dust mote or two on your gran’s curio cabinet.”

I know what he’s doing—trying to get me to like the idea. It’s only when I hear Gran’s voice in my head—Never look a gift horse in the mouth—that I warm to the notion.

“If it makes everyone feel better for me to stay home, that’s what I’ll do,” I say.

“I’ll bake you shortbread tonight, so you can have biscuits with your tea tomorrow,” Juan offers. “And I’ll call to check in during the day.”

“So will I,” says Angela.

“Me, too,” echoes Gran-dad.

And so, it’s settled. Tomorrow, Juan will go to work, and I will stay in our apartment on my own. Thanks to the missing egg, I have become a prisoner in my own home.

—

“Rise and shine!” Those are the first words I hear the next morning, much like every morning, as Juan whisks back the curtains and lets the morning light shine into our bedroom. I’m about to get out of bed and hurry off to shower, but then I remember I’m not in any rush today since I’m not going anywhere. I watch as Juan putters around the room, picking out clothes and putting on his slippers.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to work,” I say. “Even Detective Stark admitted there’s a low probability that I’m in real danger.”

“Molly,” says Juan as he turns to face me. “What is it you always say about that Egyptian river?”

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt?”

“That’s the one,” he replies.

This clearly isn’t a battle I’m going to win.

Juan readies himself for his workday. We have breakfast, and soon enough he’s off to work.

“I’ll call you later,mi amor,” he says, planting a kiss on my lips and hugging me tight. “I’ll miss you at the hotel and so will the staff, but there’s always tomorrow.”

I say goodbye, then I lock the door behind him, leaning against it as I survey our apartment, wondering what I’ll do with myself for the rest of the day.

No point weeping when you could be sweeping.

In Gran’s honor, I’ll give life meaning with deep cleaning, starting with her curio cabinet. I grab my supplies and begin with the middle shelf, polishing Gran’s collection of souvenir spoons. Each one holds a memory of a precious moment we spent together. I’m burnishing one from Killarney, Ireland—pure silver with a green inlaid shamrock on the handle. I remember when we acquired this spoon, not in Ireland, because our travels were relegated to the armchair variety. We were walking past a mansion where Gran worked as a maid when I was about twelve years old.

At the end of a long, winding driveway was a cardboard box outside the iron entry gate. It was filled with all manner of trinkets—a crystal vase, bamboo placemats, some dishes and teacups (much better than ours at home), and this silver souvenir spoon.

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