Page 77 of The Maid

“How?” I ask.

“I told her I knew she was stealing tips from other maids. She got so flustered she didn’t even notice me pocketing her master keycard from her trolley. Not so much as a fingerprint left behind either,” he adds, wiggling his white-gloved fingers. “Here,” he says, holding out one hand. “Shake.”

I take the cue and shake. When I do, I feel the master keycard transferseamlessly into my palm.

“You take good care, Molly,” he says in a voice loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “You run home now. You have no place being here today.” He nods to Mr. Snow and Mr. Snow nods back.

Of course, Mr. Preston knows as well as I do that I cannot leave. Not yet. I’m about to start a whole new monologue about worker bees when at long last Rodney emerges through the revolving doors and bounds down the steps toward me.

“I don’t understand any of this!” I shout. “I’m a good maid! Rodney, you’re just the person I wanted to see. Can you believe this?”

Mr. Snow approaches. “Rodney,” he says, “we’re trying to explain to Miss Molly that she is no longer welcome in this hotel. But we’re having a hard time delivering the message.”

“I understand,” Rodney says. “Let me talk to her.”

I’m pulled away again. Once we’re out of earshot, Rodney says, “Molly, don’t worry. I’ll talk to Snow later and find out what’s up with your job. Okay? Probably just a misunderstanding. Did you get the key? To the Black suite? There’s no time to lose.”

“You’re right, there isn’t,” I say. “Here’s the key.” I discreetly pass him the card.

“Thanks, Molly. You’re the best. Hey, I heard the police announced a news conference that’s just about to happen. Do you know what that’s all about?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say.

I watch him carefully, hoping this answer appeases. “Right. Okay. I’d better get this done before Owl Eyes lets the cops in.”

“Yes. As quickly as you can. Good luck.”

He turns and starts up the stairs. “Oh, Rodney,” I say. He turns back, looks down at me. “It really is remarkable the lengths to which you’ll go for a friend.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

Before I can say anything else, he’s at the top of the stairs. “Don’t worry,” he tells Mr. Snow. “She’s leaving.” He says it just like that, as though I wasn’t even there.

After that, I hurry down the scarlet steps, turning back only once to see Rodney rushing through the revolving doors and Mr. Preston behind him, one hand out, the other guiding Mr. Snow into the hotel.

I check my phone: 5:45.

It’s time.

I’m sitting at the coffee shop directly across from the hotel. I’m right by the window, so I have a perfect view of the entrance to the Regency Grand. The light is fading. Sharp shadows fall upon the entrance, turning the scarlet staircase a different shade, closer to the color of dried blood. It won’t be too long before the wrought iron gaslights will flicker on and their flames will glow richly as dusk gives way to dark.

I have a metal teapot in front of me, the kind that dribbles and never pours cleanly, and a thick mug. I prefer Gran’s porcelain to this, but beggars can’t be choosers. I also splurged on a freshly baked raisin-bran muffin, which I’ve divided into four pieces, but I’m too nervous to eat it right now.

A few minutes ago, Mr. Preston emerged from the revolving doors and resumed his position at the doorman’s podium. He made a call. It was very quick, very quick indeed. I can see him look up and across the street at this very window. He probably can’t see me in the fading light, but he knows I’m here. And I know he’s there. Which is a comfort.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Charlotte. A thumbs-up emoji, which we agreed beforehand would be our sign for “Everything is going according to plan.”

Another text arrives from her:Wait where you are.

I send her a thumbs-up emoji back even though I am not feeling thumbs-up at all. I am decidedly thumbs-down and won’t feel thumbs-up until I see some movement on those steps, until I see signs—any signs beyond an emoji—that the plan is actually working. And so far, nothing.

It’s 5:59p.m.

It’s time.

I wrap my anxious hands around my mug, even though it’s tepid now and not much comfort. I have a good view of the TV screen to the right of my table. There’s no sound, but it’s tuned as it always is to the twenty-four-hour news channel. A young police officer I recognize as Detective Stark’s colleague is about to speak at the press conference. He’s reading from the papers in front of him. The captions are scrolling:

…that an arrest has been made in connection to what police have now confirmed is the murder of Mr. Charles Black, on Monday at the Regency Grand Hotel. Photographed here is the accused, Molly Gray, hotel room maid at the Regency Grand. She is under arrest for first-degree murder, possession of a firearm, and drug charges.

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