The Maid

Chapter 15

The next morning I’m at the hotel, and I’m late, oh so very late. No matter how hard I work, no matter how many rooms I clean, I can’t keep up. I finish one room and an obsidian door, like a great, gaping maw, opens to the next guest room just down the hall. There’s dirt everywhere—grit ground into the pile of every carpet, cracks in all the mirrors, greasy smudges on tabletops, and bloody fingerprints smeared across twisted sheets. Suddenly, I’m climbing the grand terrace staircase in the lobby, desperate to get away. My hands clutch the golden serpent balustrades, each one slippery to the touch. The beady reptilian eyes look familiar, then they blink and come to life under my fingers. With each step I take, a new serpent awakens—Cheryl, Mr. Snow, Wilbur, the tattooed behemoths, Mr. Rosso, Detective Stark, Rodney, Giselle, and finally, Mr. Black.

“No!” I scream, but then I hear knocking. I sit bolt-upright in bed, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Gran?” I call out. It comes back to me as it does every morning. I’m alone in the world.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I check my phone. It’s not quite seven in the morning, so my alarm has not yet gone off. Who in their right mind would be rapping on my door at this most inconvenient hour? Then I remember Mr. Rosso, who owes me my receipt for rent paid.

I haul myself out of bed and put my slippers on. “Coming!” I say. “Just one moment!”

I shake away the nightmare and walk down the hallway to the front door. I slide the rusty dead bolt across, then turn the lock and open the door wide.

“Mr. Rosso, while I appreciate you bringing—” But midsentence I stop cold because it’s not Mr. Rosso at the door.

An imposing young police officer is standing with his feet apart, blocking all the light. Behind him are two more officers, a middle-aged man who would fit in fine in Columbo, and Detective Stark.

“Please excuse me. I’m not properly dressed,” I say. I clutch at the collar of my pajamas, which used to be Gran’s—pink flannel with a delightful array of multicolored teapots all over them. This is no way to greet guests, even ones impolite enough to arrive unannounced at an inconvenient hour of the morning.

“Molly,” Detective Stark says, stepping in front of the young officer. “You’re under arrest for unlawful possession of a firearm, possession of drugs, and first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future.”

My head is spinning, the floor is tilting under my feet. Tiny teapots spin before my eyes. “Would anyone like a cup of…” But I can’t finish the question, because my vision dims.

The last thing I remember is my knees turning to marmalade and all the world fading to black.

When I come to, I’m in a holding cell, lying down on a tiny gray cot. I remember my front door, opening it, and the shock of my rights being read to me just like on TV. Was that real? I sit up slowly. I take in the small room with bars. Yes, it’s all real. I’m in a jail cell, probably in the basement of the same station I’ve visited twice before for questioning.

I take a few breaths, willing myself to remain calm. It smells dry and dusty. I’m still wearing my pajamas, which strikes me as entirely unsuitable apparel for this particular situation. The cot I’m sitting on is stained with what Gran would call “unresolvable dirt”—smeared blood and some yellow circular stains that could be many things that I don’t want to think about. This cot is an example of a perfectly serviceable item that should immediately be disposed of because there is simply no way to restore it to a state of perfection.

How sanitary is the rest of this cell? I wonder. It occurs to me that a far worse job than being a hotel maid would be working as a janitor in such a place. Imagine the plethora of bacteria and filth that has accumulated here over the years. No, I cannot focus on that.

I put my slippered feet on the floor.

Count your blessings.

My blessings. I’m about to start at number one, but when I look down at my hands, I see they are besmirched. Stained. I have dark black ink marks on every finger. It comes back to me then. Lying on this cot in this cramped, germ-infested cell, two police officers guiding each of my fingers toward a jet-black ink blotter. They didn’t even have the decency to allow me to wash my hands after, though I did ask. After that I don’t remember much. Perhaps I fainted again. It’s hard to say how long ago that was—it could have been five minutes or five hours.

Before I can think about anything else, the young police officer who was at my door at home appears on the other side of the cell bars.

“You’re awake,” he says. “You’re at the police station, do you understand? You passed out at your front door and in here too. We read you your rights. You’re under arrest. Multiple charges. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I say. I can’t recall what exactly I’ve been arrested for, but I know it most certainly has to do with the death of Mr. Black.

Detective Stark appears beside the young officer. She’s in plainclothes now, but this does nothing to alter the dread I feel the moment her eyes meet mine. “I’ll take it from here,” she says. “Molly, come with me.”

The young officer turns a key in the cell door and holds it open for me.

“Thank you,” I say as I pass.

Detective Stark leads the way. Behind me, the young officer follows, making sure I’m hemmed in. I’m escorted down a hallway with three other cells. I try not to look inside them, but it’s futile. I catch a glimpse of a sallow-faced man with sores on his face, holding on to the bars of his cell. Opposite him a young woman in torn clothing lies crying in her cot.

Count your blessings.

We go up some stairs. I avoid touching the railings, which are coated with filth and grime. Eventually, we arrive at a familiar room that I’ve visited twice before. Detective Stark flicks on the lights.

“Sit,” she orders. “You’ve been here so often it must feel like home.”

“It’s nothing like home,” I say, my voice like a blade, cutting and sharp. I sit in the wobbly chair behind the dirty, white table, careful not to touch my back against the rest. My feet are cold despite my fuzzy slippers.

The young officer walks in with a coffee in a dastardly Styrofoam cup, two creamers, and a muffin on a paper plate. And a metal spoon. He puts all of this down on the table, then leaves. Detective Stark closes the door behind him.

“Eat,” she says. “We don’t want you passing out again.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” I reply, because you’re supposed to say something complimentary when offered food. I don’t believe she’s being authentically caring, but it hardly matters. I’m ravenous. My body craves sustenance. I need it to carry on, to get me through what’s next.

I pick up the spoon, turn it over in my hand. There’s a dried clump of gray matter on the underside. I put it down immediately.

“Do you take cream in your coffee?” Detective Stark asks. She’s taken a seat across from me at the table.

“Just one,” I say. “Thank you.”

She reaches out for the creamer, opens it, and pours it into the cup. She’s about to grab the revolting spoon and stir.

“No!” I say. “I prefer my coffee unstirred.”

She stares at me with that look of hers that is becoming easier and easier to interpret—derision and disgust. She hands me the Styrofoam cup. It makes that horrific squeaky sound as I take it in my hand. I can’t help but cringe.

Detective Stark pushes the plate with the muffin closer to me. “Eat,” she says again, an order not an invitation.

“Thank you very much,” I say as I delicately pry the muffin from the paper lining, then sever it into four neat pieces. I pop one quarter into my mouth. Raisin bran. My favorite kind of muffin—dense and nutrient-rich, with random bursts of sweetness. It’s as if Detective Stark knew my preference, though of course she didn’t. Only Columbo could have figured that out.

I swallow and take a couple of sips of the bitter coffee. “Delightful,” I say.

Detective Stark guffaws. I do believe it is a proper guffaw. No other word would suffice. She crosses her arms. This could mean she’s cold, but I doubt it. She distrusts me, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

“You realize we’ve laid charges against you,” she says. “For unlawful possession of a firearm, for possession of drugs. And for first-degree murder.”

I nearly choke on my next sip of coffee. “That’s impossible,” I say. “I have never hurt a soul in my life, never mind murdered one.”

“Look,” she says, “we believe you killed Mr. Black. Or you had something to do with it. Or you know who did. The autopsy report has come in. It’s definitive, Molly. It wasn’t a heart attack. He was asphyxiated. That’s how he died.”

I jam another chunk of muffin into my mouth and concentrate on chewing. It’s always good to chew every bite ten to twenty times. Gran used to say it aids digestion. I begin counting in my head.

“How many pillows do you leave on every bed that you make up at the hotel?” Detective Stark asks.

I know the answer, obviously, but my mouth is full. It would be impolite to reply right now.

“Four,” the detective says before I’m ready to answer. “Four pillows are on every bed. I verified it with Mr. Snow and some of the other maids. But there were only three pillows on Mr. Black’s bed when I arrived at the scene of the crime. Where did the fourth pillow go, Molly?”

Six, seven, eight chews. I swallow and am about to speak, but before I do, the detective slams both hands down on the table that divides us, which causes me to nearly jump out of my chair.

“Molly!” she barks. “I just insinuated that you murdered a man in cold blood with a pillow, and you’re sitting there, mindfully eating a muffin.”

I pause to regulate my pulse, which is racing. I’m not used to being yelled at or accused of heinous crimes. I find it most disconcerting. I sip my coffee to settle my jangling nerves. Then I speak. “I will say it in a new way, Detective. I did not kill Mr. Black. And I most certainly didn’t asphyxiate him with a pillow. And for the record, there is no possible way that I could ever possess drugs. I’ve never seen nor tried one in my life. Also, they killed my mother. And very nearly killed my gran of a broken heart.”

“You lied to us, Molly. About your connection to Giselle. She told us you often hung around the Blacks’ suite long after you were done cleaning it and that you engaged in personal conversations with her. She also said you took money from Mr. Black’s wallet.”

“What? That’s not what she meant! She meant took as in accepted. She gave the money to me.” I look from the detective to the camera blinking in the corner of the room. “Giselle always tipped me generously and freely. It was she who took bills from Mr. Black’s wallet, not me.”

Detective Stark’s mouth is a hard line. I straighten my pajamas and sit taller in my chair.

“After everything I’ve said, that’s the one point you want to clarify?”

The straight angles of the room begin to warp and bend. I take a deep breath to steady myself, waiting until the table has corners instead of curves.

It’s too much information. I can’t process it all. Why can’t people just say what they mean? I gather the detective has spoken to Giselle again, but it’s impossible to believe that Giselle misrepresented me. She wouldn’t do such a thing, not to a friend.

A tremor starts in my hands and travels up my body. I reach for the Styrofoam cup and almost spill it in my haste to bring it to my lips.

I make a quick decision. “I do have one clarification to make,” I say. “It is true that Giselle confided in me and that I consider—considered—her a friend. I am sorry for not making this entirely clear to you before.”

Detective Stark nods. “Not making this entirely clear? Huh. Is there anything else you decided to ‘not make entirely clear’?”

“Yes. In fact there is. My gran always said that if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, it’s best to say nothing at all. Which is why I said little about Mr. Black himself. I’ll have you know that Mr. Black was far from the fine VIP that everyone seems to think he was. Perhaps you should investigate his enemies. I told you before that Giselle was physically harmed by him. He was a very dangerous man.”

“Dangerous enough for you to tell Giselle that she’d be better off without him?”

“I never…” But I stop right there, because I did say this. I remember now. I believed it then, and I believe it still.

I fill my mouth with a chunk of muffin. It’s a relief to have a legitimate reason not to speak. I return to Gran’s chewing imperative. One, two, three…

“Molly, we’ve spoken with many of your coworkers. Do you know how they describe you?”

I pause my regimen to shake my head.

“They say you’re awkward. Standoffish. Meticulous. A neat freak. A weirdo. And worse.”

I reach ten chews and swallow, but it does nothing to alleviate the lump that has formed in my throat.

“Do you know what else some of your colleagues said about you? They said they could totally picture you murdering someone.”

Cheryl, of course. Only she would say such a heinous thing.

“I don’t like speaking ill of people,” I reply. “But since you’re pressing me, Cheryl Green, head maid, cleans sinks with her toilet rag. That’s not a euphemism. I mean it literally. She calls in sick when she’s well. She spies into people’s lockers. And she steals tips. If she’s capable of theft and hygiene crimes, how low would she go?”

“How low would you go, Molly? You stole Mr. Black’s wedding ring and pawned it.”

“What?” I say. “I didn’t steal it. I found it. Who told you that?”

“Cheryl followed you all the way to the pawn shop. She knew you were up to something. We found the ring in the front window, Molly. The shopkeeper described you perfectly—someone who blends into the background, until she speaks. The kind of person you’d easily forget about under most circumstances.”

My pulse is pounding. I can’t keep my mind focused. This doesn’t reflect well on my character and I must make amends.

“I should not have pawned that ring,” I say. “I applied the wrong rule in my head, ‘the finders-keepers rule,’ when I should have applied the ‘do unto others’ rule. I regret that choice, but it doesn’t make me a thief.”

“You’ve stolen other things,” she says.

“I have not,” I say, punctuating my disdain with crossed arms, a postural signal of indignance.

“Mr. Snow has seen you stealing food from discarded trays. And small pots of jam.”

I feel the floor of my stomach drop out from under me the way it does when the elevator at the hotel is about to go on the fritz. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating—that Mr. Snow saw me do this or that he never said a word to me about it.

“He is telling the truth,” I admit. “I have liberated discarded food, food that would have ended up in the trash bin anyway. This is ‘waste not, want not.’ It is not theft.”

“It’s all a matter of degrees, Molly. One of your colleagues, a fellow maid, said she worries that you can’t spot danger.”

“Sunitha,” I say. “For the record, she’s an excellent maid.”

“It’s not her record that’s on the line here.”

“Did you speak with Mr. Preston?” I ask. “He will vouch for me.”

“We did speak to the doorman, actually. He said you were ‘blameless’—interesting choice of words—and that we should dig for dirt elsewhere. He mentioned Black’s family members, as well as some strange characters coming and going at night. But it was like he was going out of his way to protect you, Molly. He knows something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.”

“What does Denmark have to do with any of this?” I ask.

Detective Stark sighs loudly. “Bloody hell. It’s going to be a long day.”

“And Juan Manuel, the dishwasher?” I ask. “Did you talk to him?”

“Why would we talk to a dishwasher, Molly? Who is he, anyhow?”

A son to a mother, a provider to a family, another invisible worker bee in the hive. But I decide not to press further. The last thing I want is for him to be in trouble. Instead, I name the one person who I’m certain would vouch for my reliability. “Have you spoken with Rodney, the bartender at the Social?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. He said he thought you were—quote unquote—‘more than capable of murder.’ ”

All of the energy that has kept my spine upright dissipates in an instant. I slump over and look down at my hands in my lap. A maid’s hands. Working hands. Chaffed and dry, despite all the lotion I put on them, the nails cut cleanly short, calluses on the palms. The hands of a much older woman than I actually am. Who would want these hands and the body attached to them? How could I ever think that Rodney would?

If I look up at Detective Stark now, I know the tears will spill from my eyes, so I concentrate on the cheery little teapots on my pajamas—vibrant pink, baby blue, and daffodil yellow.

When the detective speaks, her voice is softer than before. “Your fingerprints were all over the Blacks’ suite.”

“Of course they were,” I say. “I cleaned that suite every day.”

“And did you also clean Mr. Black’s neck? Because traces of your cleaning solution were found there too.”

“Because I checked his pulse before calling for help!”

“You had various plans for killing him, Molly, so why in the end did you choose asphyxiation rather than the gun? Did you really think you wouldn’t get caught?”

I will not look up. I will not.

“We found the weapon in your vacuum cleaner.”

I feel my insides twisting, the dragon slashing and gnashing. “What were you doing meddling with my vacuum cleaner?”

“What were you doing hiding a gun in it, Molly?”

My pulse is pounding. The only other person who knew about both the ring and the gun was Rodney. I can’t do it. I can’t assemble the pieces in my mind.

“We tested your housekeeping cart,” Detective Stark says. “And it tested positive for traces of cocaine. We know you’re not the kingpin here, Molly. You’re simply not smart enough for that. We believe that Giselle introduced you to Mr. Black, and that she groomed you to work for her husband. We believe you and Mr. Black were well acquainted, and that you were helping him hide the lucrative drug operation he was running through the hotel. Something must have gone wrong between the two of you. Maybe you got angry with him and you retaliated by taking his life. Or maybe you were helping Giselle get out of a bad situation. Either way, you were involved.

“So as I said, this can go one of two ways. You can plead guilty immediately to all charges, including first-degree murder. The judge will take your swift guilty plea and confession into consideration. An early demonstration of regret, plus any information you can provide about the drug-running happening in this hotel, could go a long way in lightening your sentence.”

The teapots dance around in my lap. The detective is droning on, but her voice sounds tinny, farther and farther away.

“Or we can do this the long and slow way. We can gather more evidence, and we can end up in court. Either way, Molly the Maid, the jig is up. So what do you choose?”

I know I’m not thinking straight. And I don’t know the proper rules of etiquette when one is accused of murder. Out of nowhere, I remember Columbo.

“You read me my rights earlier,” I say. “At the door of my home. You said I have the right to consult an attorney. If I hire one, do I have to pay immediately?”

Detective Stark rolls her eyes—exasperation writ so large that I can’t miss it. “Lawyers generally don’t expect cash on the spot,” she says.

I hold my head up and look straight at her.

“In that case, I’d like one phone call, please. I demand to speak to a lawyer.”

Detective Stark pushes back her chair. It makes an aggravating noise. I’m certain she’s just added to the plethora of unsightly scuff marks already on the floor. She opens the door of the interrogation room and says something to the young police officer standing guard outside. He fishes a cell phone from his back pocket and hands it to her. It’s my cell phone. What is he doing with my cell phone?

“Here,” the detective says. She drops my phone on the table with a clunk.

“You took my phone,” I say. “Who gave you the right?”

Detective Stark’s eyes go wide. “You did,” she says. “After you fainted in the cell, you insisted that we take your phone in case you needed it later to call a friend.”

The truth is that I don’t remember, but something vague niggles at the back of my consciousness.

“Thank you very much,” I say. I pick up my phone and press Contacts. I search all eight entries—Giselle, Gran, Cheryl Green, Olive Garden, Mr. Preston, Rodney, Mr. Rosso, Mr. Snow. I consider who is truly on my side—and who might not be. The names swirl before my eyes. I wait until I can see clearly. Then I choose and dial. I hear it ringing. Someone picks up.

“Mr. Preston?” I say.

“Molly? Are you all right?”

“Please pardon me for troubling you at such an inconvenient hour. You’re probably getting ready for work.”

“Not now. I’m working the late shift today. Dear girl, what’s going on?”

I look around the plain white room with the fluorescent lights beating down on me. Detective Stark eyes me with her ice-glazed stare. “The truth is, Mr. Preston, I’m not quite all right. I’ve been arrested for murder. And more. I’m being held at the station nearest the hotel. And I…I hate to say this, but I could really use your help.”

Chapter 16

Once I finish my call to Mr. Preston, Detective Stark holds out her hand. In truth, I do not know what for, so I grab my empty Styrofoam cup and pass it to her, thinking we are finished and that she’s cleaning the table.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Now you think I’m your maid?”

I most certainly do not. If she were anywhere near a half-decent maid, this room would not look as it does—scuffed and scratched, stained and smeared. If I had so much as a napkin and a bottle of water, I could bide my time cleaning up this pigpen.

Detective Stark takes my phone from my hand.

“Will I get that back? I have essential contacts that I’d hate to lose.”

“You’ll get it back,” she says. “Someday.” She looks at her watch. “So, is there anything else you’d like to say, while we’re waiting for your lawyer?”

“My apologies, Detective. Please don’t take my silence personally. First off, I’ve never been very gifted with small talk and when I’m forced to make it, I often say the wrong thing. Second, I’m aware of my right to remain silent and so I’ll begin employing it immediately.”

“Fine,” she says. “Have it your way.”

After what seems like an unholy eternity, there’s a loud knock on the door.

“This should be interesting,” Detective Stark says, rising from her chair and opening the door.

It’s Mr. Preston, in civilian dress. I’ve rarely seen him out of his doorman’s cap and coat. He’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue shirt and dark jeans. There’s a woman with him dressed much more formally in a tailored navy suit, carrying a black leather briefcase. Her short, curly hair is perfectly coiffed. Her dark-brown eyes immediately give away who she is because they’re so much like her father’s.

I stand to greet them. “Mr. Preston,” I say, barely able to contain my relief at seeing them. I move a bit too quickly and hit my hip bone on the table. It smarts, but it doesn’t stop the surge of words that flows from my mouth. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you so much for coming. It’s just that I’ve been accused of some terrible things. I’ve never harmed anyone, never touched a drug in my life, and the only time I’ve ever held a weapon was—”

“Molly, I’m Charlotte,” Mr. Preston’s daughter says, interrupting me. “It’s my professional advice that you remain silent at this time. Oh. And it’s very nice to meet you. My dad has told me a lot about you.”

“One of you better be an attorney, or I’m going to lose it,” Detective Stark says.

Charlotte steps forward, her sharp heels clacking loudly on the cold, industrial floor. “That would be me, Charlotte Preston, of Billings, Preston & García,” she says, flicking a business card to the detective.

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says to me. “We’re here now, so don’t you worry about a thing. This is all just a big—”

“Dad,” Charlotte says.

“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, and zips his mouth shut.

“Molly, do you agree to be represented by me?”

I don’t say a word.

“Molly?” she prods.

“You instructed me not to speak. Should I speak now?”

“My apologies. I wasn’t clear. You can speak, just not anything relating to the charges lain. Let me ask you again: do you agree to be represented by me?”

“Oh yes, that would be most helpful,” I say. “Can we discuss a payment plan at a more convenient time?”

Mr. Preston coughs into his hand.

“I’d offer you a tissue, Mr. Preston, but I’m afraid I don’t have one on me.” I eye Detective Stark, who is shaking her head.

“Please don’t worry about payment right now. Let’s just concentrate on getting you out of here,” Charlotte says.

“You realize that to release her you’ve got to post bail of $800,000. Now, let me see…” Detective Stark says as she puts her index finger to her lips, “I think that’s just a spot above a maid’s earnings and assets, am I right?”

“You’re right, Detective,” Charlotte says. “Maids and doormen are often underpaid and undervalued. But litigators? We do all right. Better than detectives, so I’m told. I’ve personally posted bail with the clerk out front.” She smiles at Detective Stark. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that it’s not a friendly smile.

Charlotte turns to me. “Molly,” she says. “I’ve arranged for you to have a bail hearing later this morning. I’m not allowed to represent you there, but I’ve filed some letters already on your behalf.”

“Letters?” I ask.

“Yes, from my father, who has provided a character statement, and from me, saying I’ll post your bail. If all goes well, you’ll be released this afternoon.”

“Really?” I ask. “Is it that simple? I’ll be released and this will be over?” I look from her to Mr. Preston.

“Hardly,” Detective Stark says. “Even if they get you off now, you’ll still have to stand trial. It’s not like we’re dropping the charges.”

“Is that your phone?” Charlotte asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’ll make sure it’s kept locked and safe somewhere, right, Detective? You won’t be logging that as evidence.”

Detective Stark pauses. Her hand is on her hip. “It’s not my first rodeo, cowgirl. I’ve got her house keys, too, by the way, which she insisted I keep after she passed out.” The detective fishes my keys from her pocket and drops them on the table. If I had an antiseptic wipe, I’d snatch them up and immediately disinfect them.

“Great,” Charlotte says, picking up my keys and phone. “We’ll talk to your clerk out front and make sure they log these as personal possessions, not evidence.”

“Fine,” says Detective Stark.

Mr. Preston is looking down at me, his eyebrows crinkling together. It may be that he’s concentrating hard, but I think it’s more likely that he’s concerned.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be waiting for you after the hearing.”

“See you on the other side,” Charlotte adds. And with that, they turn and leave.

Once they’re gone, Detective Stark just stands there, arms crossed, glaring at me.

“What happens now?” I ask. I’m finding it hard to breathe.

“You and your teapots go back to your charming holding cell and wait patiently for your hearing,” Detective Stark replies.

I stand and straighten my pajamas. The young officer outside is ready to escort me back to the repugnant cell.

“Thank you very much,” I say to the detective before I exit.

“Thank you for what?” she asks.

“For the muffin and the coffee. I do hope you have a more pleasant morning than mine.”

Chapter 17

It feels awfully strange to be wearing pajamas in the afternoon, and it feels particularly unnerving to be in a courthouse wearing such wholly inappropriate attire. One of Detective Stark’s police officers kindly drove me to this courthouse about an hour ago, and now I’m seated in a cramped office on the premises with a very young man who will serve as my attorney in the bail hearing. He asked me my name, reviewed the charges against me, told me we’d be called into the courtroom when the judge was ready, and then claimed he had some emails to read. He took out his phone and has been giving it his fullest attention for at least five minutes. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do in the meantime. No matter. This allows me time to collect myself.

I know from TV that as the accused, I should be wearing a clean blouse, buttoned to the neck, and formal dress slacks. I most certainly should not be wearing pajamas.

“Excuse me,” I say to the young attorney. “Would it be possible to go home and change before the hearing?”

His face scrunches up. “You can’t be serious,” he replies. “Do you know how lucky you are to be seen today?”

“I am serious,” I say. “Quite.”

He puts his phone in his breast pocket. “Wow. Do I have some news for you.”

“Excellent. Please share it, posthaste,” I reply.

But he doesn’t utter a word. He just stares at me with his mouth open, which surely means I’ve made some blunder, but what it is I do not know.

Moments later, he proceeds to fire questions my way. “Have you ever done jail time?”

“Not until this morning,” I say.

“That wasn’t jail,” he says. “Jail’s way worse than that. Do you have a criminal record?”

“My record is squeaky clean, thank you very much.”

“Do you harbor plans of leaving the country?”

“Oh, yes. I’d love to visit the Cayman Islands someday. I’ve heard it’s lovely. Have you been?”

“Just tell the judge you have no plans of leaving the country,” he says.

“As you wish.”

“The hearing won’t take long. They’re pretty standard, even in criminal cases like yours. I’ll try to get you free on bail. I’m assuming that like everyone else who’s ever been accused, you’re not guilty and you want out on bail because you’re the sole caregiver for your poor, sick grandmother, right?”

“I was. But not anymore,” I say. “She’s dead. And I’m not guilty on any of the charges, of course.”

“Right. Of course,” he replies.

I’m grateful for his instant vote of confidence.

I’m about to get into the details of my complete innocence, but his phone buzzes in his pocket. “We’re up,” he says. “Let’s go.”

He leads me out of the small office, down a hallway, and into a much larger room with benches on both sides and a wide aisle in the middle. I’m walking down the aisle with him to the front of the courtroom. For a moment, I imagine a similar room with a similar aisle, with the big difference that in my imagination, I’m walking down the aisle as a bride-to-be and the man beside me is not this stranger at all but a man very known to me.

My flight of fancy is rudely interrupted when my young attorney says, “Take a seat,” and points to a chair in front of a table to the right of the judge.

As I sit, Detective Stark walks into court and seats herself at an identical chair in front of an identical table across the chasm of the aisle.

I feel my jitters return. I clasp my hands tightly in my lap to quell my trembling.

Someone says, “All rise,” and I feel the young attorney’s hand on my elbow guiding me to my feet.

The presiding judge emerges from a door at the back of the court and plods to his high bench, sitting down in front of it with an audible groan. I do not mean it unkindly when I say that he reminds me of a Brazilian horned frog. Gran and I watched a tremendous documentary about the Amazon rain forest and the Brazilian horned frog. Such a unique creature. It has a long, downturned mouth and protuberant eyebrows, much like the judge before me.

The proceedings begin immediately, with the judge asking Detective Stark to speak. She presents the charges against me. She says many things about the Black case and about my involvement in it. She makes it seem like I’m not a reliable person. But it’s the end of her diatribe that stings the most.

“Your Honor,” she says, “the charges against Molly Gray are very serious. And while I’m aware that the accused before you presents as a picture of innocence and not a flight risk at all, she has proven herself unreliable. Much like the Regency Grand Hotel where she works, which by all appearances is a fine, upstanding hotel, the more we probe into the life of Molly and her workplace, the more dirt we uncover.”

If I could and it were my place to do so, I’d bang a gavel and yell, “Objection!” just like they do on TV.

The judge doesn’t move at all, but he does interrupt. “Detective Stark, may I remind you that the hotel is not the subject of this hearing, nor can a hotel stand trial. Can you please get to the point?”

Detective Stark clears her throat. “The point is that we’re beginning to question the nature of the connection between Molly Gray and Mr. Black. We’ve gathered significant evidence of illegal activity between Mr. Black and the seemingly innocent young hotel maid you see before you. I’m deeply concerned about her moral integrity and her ability to abide by the rule of law. In other words, Your Honor, this is a prime example of appearances being deceiving.”

I find this incredibly insulting. I may have my faults, but it’s balderdash and poppycock to suggest that I don’t follow rules. I’ve devoted my entire life to just that, even when the rules are entirely unsuited to my constitution.

The young attorney is directed to speak on my behalf. He talks quickly and flails his arms dramatically. He explains to the judge that I have a squeaky-clean criminal record, that I lead a woefully uneventful life, am gainfully employed in a menial position offering zero flight risk, that I have never in all my years left the country and have occupied the same address for twenty-five years—ergo, my entire life.

In closing, he poses a question. “Does this young woman really fit the profile for a dangerous criminal and a runner? I mean, really. Take a good look at who you have in front of you. Something doesn’t add up.”

The judge’s froglike jowls are resting on his hands. His eyes are droopy and half-closed. “Who’s posting bail?” he asks.

“An acquaintance of the accused,” the young attorney answers.

The judge checks a paper in front of him. “Charlotte Preston?” The judge’s eyes open slightly and fall on me. “Friends in high places, I see,” he says.

“Not usually, Your Honor,” I answer. “But lately, yes. Also, I wish to apologize for my wholly inappropriate attire. I was arrested at my front door at an inopportune hour of the early morning and was not afforded a chance to dress in a respectful manner that befits your court.”

I don’t know if I was supposed to speak, but it’s too late now. My young attorney’s mouth is wide open, but he’s giving me no clues as to what I should do or say.

After a sizable pause, the judge speaks. “We won’t judge you on the basis of your teapots, Ms. Gray, but on your propensity to obey the rules and to stay put.” His impressive eyebrows undulate to accentuate his words.

“That’s welcome news, Your Honor. I’m actually quite gifted when it comes to obeying rules.”

“Good to know,” he replies.

The young attorney remains completely quiet. Since he’s not venturing a word in my defense, I carry on. “Your Honor, I consider myself most fortunate to have made a couple of friends several rungs above my station, but I’m just a maid, you see. A hotel maid. A wrongly accused one.”

“You’re not standing trial today, Ms. Gray. You understand that if we grant you bail, your movements will be restricted. Home, work, and the city only.”

“That accurately summarizes my circumnavigations up to this point in my life, Your Honor, minus travel and nature documentaries on TV, which I’m assuming don’t count since they occur from the relative comfort of an armchair. I have no intention nor financial ability to expand my geographic reach, nor would I know how to go about travel all on my own. I’d be worried I wouldn’t know the rules in a foreign place and that I’d make an…well, a fool of myself.” I pause, then realize my faux pas. “Your Honor,” I add hastily, with a quick curtsy.

One side of the judge’s long, amphibious mouth curls up into something resembling a smile. “I’d hate for anyone here today to be making a fool of themselves,” the judge says, then he looks at Detective Stark, who for the first time in the proceedings does not meet his eye.

“Ms. Gray,” the judge pronounces, “I hereby grant you your conditional bail. You’re free to go.”

Chapter 18

At long last, after many forms and formalities, I find myself sinking into the plush leather backseat of Charlotte Preston’s luxury car. Once I left the courthouse, I was passed off to a clerk who said she knew Charlotte well and would bring me safely to her. She escorted me to a back door, where Mr. Preston and his daughter, as they had promised, were waiting for me. They whisked me away in this car. I am free, for now at least.

The dashboard of Charlotte’s car tells me it’s one p.m. I believe this vehicle is a Mercedes, but given that I’ve never owned a car myself and only ride in them on rare occasions, I’m not up on the finer brands. Mr. Preston sits in the passenger seat while Charlotte drives.

I’m tremendously grateful to be in this car rather than in court or in the filthy basement holding cell in the police station. I suppose I should focus on the bright side rather than on the unpleasantness. This day has afforded me many new experiences, and Gran used to say that new experiences open doors that lead to personal growth. I’m not sure that I’ve enjoyed the doors that have opened today, nor the experiences I’ve had, but I do hope they lead to personal growth in the long run.

“Dad, you have Molly’s phone and keys, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Preston says. “Thank you for reminding me.” He removes them from his pocket and passes them back to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I say.

Only then does it occur to me. “May I ask where we’re going?”

“To your home, Molly,” Charlotte said. “We’re going to take you home.”

Mr. Preston turns around in the passenger seat to meet my eye. “Now, don’t you worry, Molly,” he says. “Charlotte’s going to help you out, pro bono, and we won’t stop until everything’s back to normal, tickety-boo.”

“But what about the bail?” I ask. “I don’t have anywhere near that kind of money.”

“That’s okay, Molly,” Charlotte says, never taking her eyes off the road. “I don’t actually have to pay that, only if you run away.”

“Well, I’m not about to do that,” I say, leaning into the space between the two front seats.

“Sounds like old Judge Wight figured that out fairly quickly, or so I’m told,” Charlotte says.

“How did you hear that so fast?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The clerks, the assistants, the court reporters. People talk. Treat them well and they give you the inside scoop. Most attorneys walk all over them, though.”

“The way of the world,” Mr. Preston says.

“I’m afraid so. They also said Judge Wight was in no rush to release Molly’s name to the press. Sounds to me like he knows Stark’s chasing the wrong fox.”

“I don’t know how any of this could have happened,” I say. “I’m just a maid, trying to do my job to the best of my abilities. I’m…I’m not guilty of any of these charges.”

“We know that, Molly,” Mr. Preston says.

“Sometimes life isn’t fair,” Charlotte adds. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over years of practice, it’s that there’s no shortage of criminals out there who will prey on a person’s difference for their personal gain.”

Mr. Preston turns around in his seat again to look at me. Deep wrinkles have emerged on his forehead.

“Life must be hard without your gran,” he says. “I know you relied on her a lot. You know, she asked me to look out for you, before she passed.”

“Did she?” I say. How I wish she were here. I look out the window through the tears that have formed in my eyes. “Thank you. For looking out for me,” I say.

“That’s quite all right,” Mr. Preston replies.

My building comes into view, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been happier to see it.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for me to go to work today as usual, Mr. Preston?”

Charlotte turns to her dad, then looks back to the road ahead.

“I’m afraid not, Molly. It will be expected that you take some time off,” Mr. Preston says.

“Would it not be correct to call Mr. Snow?”

“No, not in this case. It’s best right now not to contact anyone at the hotel.”

“There’s visitors’ parking at the back of my building,” I say. “I’ve never used it, as the visitors Gran and I used to receive were mostly Gran’s friends and none of them had vehicles.”

“Do you keep in touch with them?” Charlotte asks as she turns into a free spot.

“No,” I reply. “Not since Gran died.”

Once we’re parked, we get out of the car and I lead the way into the building. “This way,” I say, pointing to the stairwell.

“No elevator?” Charlotte asks.

“I’m afraid not,” I reply.

We climb silently to my floor and are walking down the hall toward my apartment when Mr. Rosso emerges from his.

“You!” he says, pointing a plump index finger at me. “You brought the police into this building! They arrested you! Molly, you’re no good, and you can’t live here anymore. I’m evicting you, you hear me?”

Before I can answer, I feel a hand on my arm. Charlotte steps past me and stands a few inches from Mr. Rosso’s face.

“You’re the slumlord—I mean landlord—I suppose?”

Mr. Rosso pouts the way he always does when I tell him I’m going to be a bit late with the rent.

“I am the landlord,” he says. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Molly’s lawyer,” Charlotte replies. “You do realize that this building is in violation of more than a few codes and bylaws, right? Cracked fire door, parking too tightly spaced. And any residential building over five stories has to have a working elevator.”

“Too expensive,” Mr. Rosso says.

“I’m sure city inspectors have heard that excuse before. Let me offer you some free legal advice. What’s your name again?”

“It’s Mr. Rosso,” I offer helpfully.

“Thank you, Molly,” Charlotte replies. “I’ll remember that.” She turns back to him. “So the free advice is: don’t think about my client, don’t talk about my client, don’t harass or threaten my client with eviction or anything else. Until you hear differently from me, she’s got a right to be here, the same as anyone else. You got it? Clear?”

Mr. Rosso’s face has turned bright red. I expect him to speak, but surprisingly, he does not. He merely nods, then backs away into his apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

Mr. Preston smiles at Charlotte. “That’s my girl,” he says.

I fumble for my keys and unlock my apartment door.

One of the great virtues of Gran’s daily cleaning regimen is that the apartment is in a perpetually suitable state to receive unexpected visitors, not that I usually receive any. Besides the unwanted visit from police earlier today and the shocking visit from Giselle on Tuesday, this is one of the few times I’m able to reap the benefits of this advantage.

“Please come in,” I say, directing Charlotte and Mr. Preston through my front door. I don’t take the polishing cloth out of my closet because I’m still in slippers and they have spongy bottoms that can’t effectively be wiped. Instead, I grab a plastic bag from the closet and wrap my slippers in it, TBSL—To Be Sanitized Later. Mr. Preston and Charlotte elect to keep their shoes on, which is fine by me given how grateful I am to them at this particular juncture in time.

“May I take your bag?” I ask Charlotte. “The closets are small, but I’m a bit of a wizard when it comes to spatial organization.”

“Actually, I’m going to need it,” she says. “To take notes.”

“Of course,” I say, though I feel the floors tilt under me as I realize what she’s here for and what’s about to happen next. Up to now I’ve been concentrating on the new delight of having people—friendly people, helpful people—in my environs. I’ve tried to ignore the fact that very soon, I’ll have to think more deeply about all that has happened to me today and leading up to today. I’ll have to share details and recount things I don’t actually want to think about. I’ll have to explain all that has gone wrong. I’ll have to choose what to say.

No sooner have I had these thoughts than I visibly begin to shake.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Would it be all right if I went into the kitchen and prepared us all a pot of tea? Charlotte will tell you, I’m very good at it, for a big old lug, anyhow.”

Charlotte strolls into the living room. “He makes a mean cuppa, my daddy does,” she says. “Leave that to him, and you can go freshen up, Molly. I’m sure you’re eager to change.”

“I most certainly am,” I say, looking down at my pajamas. “I won’t take long.”

“There’s no rush. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

I can hear Mr. Preston clanging around in the kitchen and humming to himself while I’m out here in the hall. This is most certainly a breach of proper etiquette. The guests should be seated comfortably in the sitting room and I should be tending to them, not the other way around. And yet, the truth of the matter is, I can’t follow protocols in this very moment. I can barely think straight. My nerves are too frayed. While I stand, immobilized in my own hallway, Charlotte joins Mr. Preston in my kitchen. They chatter back and forth to each other, like two birds on a wire. It’s the most pleasing sound, like sunshine and hope, and for a moment I wonder what it is I have done to deserve the good fortune of having them both here. My legs gradually regain mobility and I walk over to the kitchen and stand in the threshold. “Thank you,” I say. “I can’t thank you enough for—”

Mr. Preston interrupts me. “Sugar bowl? I know it must be here somewhere.”

“In the cupboard beside the stove. First shelf,” I say.

“Off you go then. Leave the rest to us.”

I turn and head to the bathroom, where I shower quickly, grateful that there’s proper hot water today and relieved to scrub the sour filth of the station and court off my skin. I enter the living room a few minutes later in a white, buttoned-down blouse and dark slacks. I’m feeling quite a lot better.

Mr. Preston is seated on the sofa and Charlotte is sitting across from him on a chair she’s brought from the kitchen. He’s found Gran’s beautiful silver serving tray in the cupboard, the one we bought for a most economical sum at a thrift store so long ago. It’s so strange to see it in his large, masculine hands. The full tea service is expertly arranged on the table in front of the sofa.

“Where did you learn to serve a proper tea, Mr. Preston?”

“I wasn’t always a doorman, you know. I had to work my way up to that,” he says. “And to think, I now have a daughter who’s a lawyer.” His eyes crinkle up as he looks upon his daughter. It’s a look that reminds me so much of gran, I want to cry.

“Shall I pour you a cup?” Mr. Preston asks me. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “One lump or two?”

“It’s a two sort of day,” I say.

“Every day is a two sort of day for me,” he says. “I need all the sweetness I can get.”

Truthfully, so do I. I need the sugar because I’m feeling a tad faint again. I’ve had nothing to eat since the raisin-bran muffin in the station this morning. I don’t have enough food in my cupboards to serve three people and eating on my own would be the very pinnacle of impropriety.

“Dad, you’ve got to cut back on sugar,” Charlotte says, shaking her head. “You know it’s not good for you.”

“Ah well,” he replies. “Hard to teach an old dog new tricks and all, right, Molly?” He pats his belly and chuckles.

Charlotte puts her teacup on the table. She picks up the yellow pad of paper and a sleek gold pen she’s placed on the floor beside her chair. “So, Molly. Have a seat. Are you ready to talk? I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about the Blacks and why you think you stand accused of…well, many things.”

“Wrongly accused,” I say as I take a seat beside Mr. Preston.

“That’s a given, Molly,” Charlotte replies. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that immediately clear. My father and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t believe that. Dad’s convinced you had nothing to do with this. He’s long suspected there’s nefarious activity taking place at that hotel.” She pauses and looks around the room. Her eyes land on Gran’s flowered curtains, her curio cabinet, and the English landscape prints on the wall. “I can see why Dad’s so sure about you, Molly. But to absolve you, we need to figure out who might actually be guilty of these crimes. We both think you’ve been played. Do you understand? You’ve been used as a pawn in Mr. Black’s murder.”

I recall the gun in my vacuum. The only people who knew about me and that gun were Giselle and Rodney. That thought alone sends a wave of sadness rushing through me. I slump over as it washes away all the gumption from my spine.

“I’m innocent,” I say. “I didn’t kill Mr. Black.” Tears prick my eyes and I drive them back. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, I really don’t.

“It’s all right,” Mr. Preston says, giving my arm a little pat. “We believe you. All you have to do is tell the truth, your truth, and Charlotte will see to the rest.”

“My truth. Yes,” I say. “I can do that. I suppose it’s time.”

I start with a full description of what I saw the day I entered the Black suite and found him dead in his bed. Charlotte furiously jots down my every word. I describe the drinks on the messy sitting-room table, Giselle’s spilled pill bottle in the bedroom, the discarded robe on the floor, the three pillows on the bed rather than four. I start to shake as the memory returns.

“I’m not sure that pillows and messiness are the details Charlotte’s after here, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I think she’s looking for details that might suggest foul play.”

“That’s right,” Charlotte adds. “Such as the pills. You said the pills were Giselle’s. Did you touch them? Were they labeled?”

“No, I didn’t touch them. Not that day at least. And the container wasn’t labeled. I knew they were Giselle’s because she’d often take them in my presence when I was cleaning the suite. Plus, I often saw the bottle in the bathroom. She called them her ‘benz friends’ or her ‘chill pills.’ I believe ‘benz’ is a medicine of some sort? She did not seem ill to me—well, not in the physical sense. But some illnesses are a lot like maids—omnipresent but almost imperceptible.”

Charlotte looks up from her pad. “So true,” she says. “Benz is short for benzodiazepine. It’s an anti-anxiety and depression med. Small white pills?”

“A lovely shade of robin’s-egg blue, actually.”

“Huh,” says Charlotte. “So it was a street drug, not a prescription. Dad, did you ever talk to Giselle? Ever see any odd behavior from her?”

“Odd behavior?” he says, taking a sip of tea. “Odd behavior is par for the course when you’re a hotel doorman at the Regency Grand. It was clear that she and Mr. Black were often on the outs. On the day that Mr. Black died, she left in a hurry and was crying. A week before, same thing, but that was after a visit from Victoria, Mr. Black’s daughter, and his ex-wife, the first Mrs. Black.”

“I remember that day,” I say. “Mrs. Black—the first—held the elevator door open for me, but her daughter told me to take the service elevator instead. Giselle told me Victoria disliked her. Perhaps that’s why Giselle was crying that day, Mr. Preston.”

“Tears and high drama were a rather regular occurrence for Giselle,” Mr. Preston says. “I suppose that’s not surprising when you consider the man she married. Far be it from me to wish a man ill, but I was not sad to see that man’s life come to an early end.”

“Why’s that?” Charlotte asks.

“You work a door like the Regency Grand for as long as I have, and you can read people in a single glance. He was no gentleman, not to the new Mrs. Black or to the former Mrs. Black. Mark my words, that man was a bad one.”

“A bad egg?” I ask.

“A stinking, rotten egg,” Mr. Preston confirms.

“Did he have any obvious enemies, Dad? Anyone who might have wanted him conveniently dispatched?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did. I was one of them. But there were others. First off, there were the women—the other women. When the Mrs. Blacks, new or old, were not around, there were…how should I call them…young female callers?”

“Dad, just say sex workers.”

“I would call them that if I knew for sure that’s what they were, but I never actually saw money exchange hands. Or the other part.” Mr. Preston coughs and looks at me. “Sorry, Molly. This is all quite dreadful.”

“It is,” I say. “But I can corroborate that. Giselle told me that Mr. Black was engaging in extramarital relations. With more than one woman too. It hurt Giselle. Understandably.”

“She told you that?” Charlotte asks. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“I most certainly did not,” I say. I adjust the top button of my blouse. “Discretion is our motto. Invisible customer service is our goal.”

Charlotte looks at her father.

“Mr. Snow’s edict for hotel employees,” he explains. “He’s the hotel manager and self-proclaimed Grand Vizier of hotel hospitality and hygiene. But I’m starting to wonder if his Mr. Clean act is all just a clever front.”

“Molly,” Charlotte says. “Can you tell me anything that might help me understand the drug and weapons charges against you?”

“I can shed some light, I hope. Giselle and I were more than just maid and guest. She trusted me. She shared her secrets with me. She was my friend.” I look to Mr. Preston, fearing I’m disappointing him since I crossed a guest-employee boundary. But he doesn’t look upset, just concerned.

“Giselle came to my house the day after Mr. Black died. I didn’t tell the police about that. I figured it was a private visit in my own home and therefore none of their concern. She was very upset. And she needed a favor from me. I obliged.”

“Oh dear,” says Mr. Preston.

“Dad,” Charlotte says. Then to me, “What did she ask you to do?”

“To remove the handgun she’d hidden in the suite. In the bathroom fan.”

Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange another look, one I’m all too familiar with—they understand something that I don’t.

“But there weren’t any gunshots heard, or even reports of wounds on Mr. Black’s body,” Mr. Preston says.

“No, not according to any news feeds I’ve seen,” Charlotte replies.

“Asphyxiated,” I say. “That’s what Detective Stark said.”

Charlotte’s mouth falls open. “Good to know,” she says and scribbles something on her yellow pad. “So the gun wasn’t the murder weapon. Did you return it to Giselle?”

“I didn’t get the chance. I hid it in my vacuum cleaner, expecting to give it to her later. Then at lunch, I left the hotel.”

“That’s right,” says Mr. Preston. “I saw you rushing out the doors and was wondering where you were off to in such a hurry.”

I look down at the cup in my lap. Something niggles at my conscience; the dragon in my belly stirs. “I found Mr. Black’s wedding ring,” I say. “And I pawned it. I know that was wrong. It’s just been very hard on my own to make ends meet financially. My gran. She’d be so ashamed of me.” I can’t bear to look up at either of them. Instead, I just stare into the black hole of my teacup.

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Your gran understood money troubles better than most. Believe me, I know that much about her and a whole lot more. It’s my understanding that she left you some savings, after she passed?”

“Gone,” I say. “Frittered away.” I can’t explain about Wilbur and the Fabergé. There’s only so much shame I can confess to at once.

“So you pawned the ring and then went back to work?” Charlotte asks.

“Yes.”

“And the police were waiting for you when you came back?”

Mr. Preston steps in. “That’s correct, Charlotte. I was there. Couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it either, though I tried.”

Charlotte shifts her weight in the chair, crosses her legs. “What about the drug charges? Do you understand how those came about?”

“There were traces of cocaine on my maid’s trolley. I have no idea how that’s even possible. I promised Gran long ago that I’d never in my life touch a drug. Now I fear I’ve broken my promise.”

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it literally.”

“Let’s go back to the gun,” Charlotte says. “How did the police find it in your vacuum cleaner?”

And here’s where I must confess the pieces that I’ve put together myself since my arrest. “Rodney,” I say, choking on the two syllables, barely able to spit them up and eject them from my mouth.

“I was wondering when his name would pop up,” Mr. Preston says.

“When the police talked to me yesterday, I was afraid. Very afraid. I went straight home and called Rodney.”

“He’s the bartender at the Social,” Mr. Preston adds for Charlotte’s benefit. “Smarmy cretin. Write that down.”

It hurts to hear Mr. Preston say it. “I called Rodney,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do. He’s been a loyal friend to me, maybe even a little bit more than a friend. I told him about the police questioning me, about Giselle and the gun in my vacuum cleaner, and about the ring I’d found and pawned.”

“Let me guess. Rodney said he’d be all too happy to help a nice girl like you,” says Mr. Preston.

“Something to that effect,” I say. “But Detective Stark said it was Cheryl, my supervisor, who followed me to the pawn shop. Maybe she’s the culprit in all of this? She’s definitely untrustworthy. The stories I could tell you.”

“My dear Molly,” Mr. Preston says with a sigh. “Rodney used Cheryl to tip off the police. Can you see that? He likely used the gun and the ring in your possession to divert suspicion away from himself and toward you. He may very well be connected to the cocaine found on your cart. And to the murder of Mr. Black.”

I know Gran would be displeased, but my shoulders slump even more. I can barely keep myself upright. “Do you think that perhaps Rodney and Giselle are in cahoots?” I ask.

Mr. Preston nods slowly.

“I see,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Molly. I tried to warn you about Rodney,” he says.

“You did, Mr. Preston. You can add the ‘I told you so.’ I deserve it.”

“You do not deserve it,” he replies. “We all have our blind spots.”

He stands and walks over to Gran’s curio cabinet. He looks at the photo of my mother, then puts it down. He picks up the photo of Gran and me at the Olive Garden. He smiles, then returns to his seat on the sofa.

“Dad, what exactly did you see at the hotel that made you suspicious of illegal activity? Do you think there’s actual drug-running happening at the Regency Grand?”

“No,” I say definitively before he can answer. “The Regency Grand is a clean establishment. Mr. Snow wouldn’t have it any other way. The only other issue is Juan Manuel.”

“Juan Manuel Morales, the dishwasher?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “I certainly wouldn’t tell tales under ordinary circumstances, but these are far from ordinary circumstances.”

“Go on,” Charlotte says.

Mr. Preston leans forward, adjusting himself around the sofa’s pointier springs.

I explain everything. How Juan Manuel’s work permit expired some time ago, how he has nowhere to live, and how Rodney secretly lets him stay overnight in empty hotel rooms. I explain the overnight bags I drop off, and how I clean up after Juan Manuel and his friends every morning.

“I’ll admit,” I say, “I really don’t know how so much dust can be tracked into a room in just one night.”

Charlotte puts her pen down on her pad and addresses her father. “Wow, Dad. What a fine establishment you work at.”

“Par excellence, as they say in France,” I add.

Mr. Preston has his head in his hands and is shaking it back and forth. “I should have known,” he says. “The burn marks on Juan Manuel’s arms, the way he avoided me whenever I asked how he was doing.”

It’s only then that the jigsaw pieces connect in my mind. Rodney’s behemoth friends, the dust, the parcels and overnight bags. The traces of cocaine on my trolley.

“Oh my lord,” I say. “Juan Manuel. He’s being abused and coerced.”

“He’s being forced to cut drugs every night in the hotel,” Mr. Preston says. “And he’s not the only one being used. They’ve been using you, too, Molly.”

I try to swallow the enormous lump that has formed in my throat.

I see it all clearly, all of it. “I haven’t only been working as a maid, have I?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not,” Charlotte replies. “I’m sorry to say it, Molly, but you’ve also been working as a mule.”

Chapter 19

Charlotte is on the phone having a quiet conversation with someone from her office. Mr. Preston is using the washroom. I’m pacing the living room. I stop at the window and open it a crack in a futile attempt to get some fresh air. Attached to our exterior wall, an empty bird feeder swings in the breeze. Gran and I used to watch birds from this window. We’d admire them for hours as they gobbled bread crumbs we’d leave out. We gave each little bird a name—Sir Chirpsalot, Lady Wingdamere, and the Earl of Beak. But when Mr. Rosso complained about the noise, we stopped our feeding. The birds flew away and never returned. Oh, to be a bird.

As I stare out the window, I catch little snippets of Charlotte’s conversation—“background check on Rodney Stiles,” “firearms registry for the name Giselle Black,” “inspection records for the Regency Grand Hotel.”

Mr. Preston emerges from the washroom. “No Juan Manuel?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I reply.

About an hour ago, Charlotte and Mr. Preston decided to contact Juan Manuel. I was very unsure about dragging him into my mess.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Charlotte said. “For many reasons.”

“He holds the missing pieces,” Mr. Preston added. “He’s the only one who might be able to shed light on this fiasco—if we can convince him to talk.”

“Won’t he be afraid?” I asked. “I have reason to believe that his family has been threatened. And so has he.” I can’t bear to even mention the other part—the burn marks.

“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Who wouldn’t be scared? But he’ll have a new choice today that he didn’t have before.”

“What choice?” I asked.

“Between us and them,” Mr. Preston replied.

Mr. Preston wasted little time after that. He called someone in the hotel kitchen who called someone else who discreetly checked the staff directory and handed over Juan Manuel’s direct cell number, which all of us hastily stored in our phones.

I waited nervously as Mr. Preston dialed his number. What if he turned out to be yet another disappointment, another person who wasn’t who I thought they were?

“Juan Manuel?” Mr. Preston said. “Yes, that’s right…”

I couldn’t hear Juan Manuel’s responses, but I pictured his puzzled face as he tried to figure out why Mr. Preston was calling.

“I believe you’re in some serious danger,” Mr. Preston explained. He went on to say that his daughter was a lawyer and that he knew Juan Manuel had been coerced at the hotel.

There was a short pause as Juan Manuel spoke.

“I understand,” Mr. Preston said. “We don’t want you hurt, and we don’t want your family hurt either. You should also know that Molly’s in trouble as well…. Yes, that’s right…. She’s been framed for Mr. Black’s murder,” Mr. Preston said.

Another short pause, a bit more back and forth, and then, “Thank you…Yes…Certainly, we can explain everything in detail. And please know, we’d never do anything to…Yes, of course. All decisions will be up to you…. I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”

It’s now been over an hour, and Juan Manuel is still not here. All of this waiting and anticipating is having a most deleterious effect on my nerves. To calm myself, I think about what a difference it makes having Mr. Preston and Charlotte on my side. Yesterday, I was alone. This apartment felt bleak and hollow. All of its color and vibrancy drained away the day Gran died. But now it’s alive again, revitalized. I look at the feeder outside the window. Perhaps later I will scrounge for crumbs and fill it, no matter what Mr. Rosso says.

I feel overcharged and I can’t stay still, which is why I’m now pacing. If I were here by myself, I’d probably scour the floors or scrub the bathroom tiles, but I’m not by myself, not anymore. It’s altogether new and odd to have company. It’s also a great comfort.

Mr. Preston takes his seat on the sofa.

Charlotte ends her call.

Something is eating away at me, and I decide to voice it. “Don’t you think I should call R-Rodney?” I ask. His name trips me up again, but I spit it out. “Perhaps he can offer an explanation? Maybe he has nothing at all to do with the cocaine found on my trolley. It could have been Cheryl, couldn’t it? Or someone else? What if Rodney’s the one who can actually explain all of this?”

“Absolutely not,” says Charlotte. “I’ve just done a background check on Rodney. Rich family but kicked out at fifteen. Then in a group home. Then petty theft, assault, and various drug charges that never stuck, and a string of different addresses a mile long before landing himself in this city.”

“See, Molly? Calling that cretin is a bad idea,” Mr. Preston says as he smooths out Gran’s crocheted blanket on the sofa. “He’ll only lie.”

“And then he’ll disappear,” Charlotte adds.

“What about Giselle? She must know something that can help me. Or Mr. Snow?”

Before either of them can answer, there’s a knock at my door.

My breath catches in my throat. “What if it’s the police?” The room starts to undulate and I fear I won’t make it to the front door.

Charlotte rises from her seat. “You have a legal representative now. The police would have called me if they wanted to contact you.”

She comes to my side. “It’s okay,” she says, putting a reassuring hand on my wrist. It works. I immediately feel a little bit calmer and the ripples in the floor solidify.

Mr. Preston appears on my other side. “You can do this, Molly,” he says. “Let’s open the door together.”

I take a deep breath and walk to the entryway. I open the door.

Juan Manuel is standing before me. He’s wearing a pressed polo shirt, tucked into his neat jeans. He’s carrying a white plastic takeout bag in one hand. His eyes are wide and his breath is ragged as though he climbed the stairs two by two.

“Hello, Molly,” he says. “I can’t believe it. I never, ever wanted trouble for you. If I could have—”

He stops midsentence. “Who are you?” he asks, looking past me to Charlotte.

She steps forward. “I’m Charlotte, Molly’s lawyer and Mr. Preston’s daughter. Please don’t be afraid. We have no intention of turning you in. And we know you’re in grave danger.”

“I’m in too deep,” he says. “So deep. I never chose this situation. They made me. They made Molly, too. It’s the same but different.”

“We’re both in trouble, Juan Manuel,” I say. “It is most serious.”

“Yes, I know,” he says.

Mr. Preston speaks up from behind me. “What’s in the bag?”

“Leftovers from the hotel,” Juan Manuel replies. “I had to make it look like I was leaving for an early dinner break. There are afternoon tea sandwiches in there. I know you like them, Mr. Preston.”

“Oh, I do. Thank you,” says Mr. Preston. “I’ll lay them out. We all need to stay fortified.”

Mr. Preston takes the bag and brings it to the kitchen.

Juan Manuel stands at the threshold without moving. Now that he’s not holding the bag, it’s easy to see that his hands are shaking. So are mine.

“Won’t you come in?” I say.

He takes two unsteady steps forward.

“I’m grateful that you’ve come, especially given your current circumstances. I’m really hoping you’ll talk to me,” I say. “And to them. I need…help.”

“I know, Molly. We’re both in deep.”

“Yes. There are things that happened that I didn’t—”

“That you didn’t understand—until now.”

“Yes,” I say. I glance at his scarred forearms, then turn away.

He steps inside and looks around the apartment. “Wow,” he says. “This place. It reminds me of home.”

He takes his shoes off. “Where can I put my work shoes? Not very clean.”

“Oh, that’s very thoughtful,” I say. I step around him and open the closet. I take out a cloth. I’m about to wipe the bottoms of his shoes when he takes the cloth from me.

“No, no. My shoes. My job.”

I stand there not knowing what to do with myself as he carefully wipes his shoes, puts them in the closet, then folds the cloth neatly and tucks it away before closing the closet door.

“I must warn you that I’m not altogether myself. Everything has been very…shocking. And I don’t normally have visitors, so I’m not used to that either. I’m not very practiced at entertaining.”

“For the love of God, Molly,” Mr. Preston says from the kitchen. “Just relax and accept some help. Juan Manuel, perhaps you can assist me in the kitchen?”

Juan Manuel joins him, and I excuse myself to use the washroom. The truth is, I need a moment to collect myself. I stare into the mirror and breathe deeply. Juan Manuel is here and we’re both in danger. I look like I’m falling apart. There are black circles under my eyes, which are swollen and red. I’m tense and drawn. Like the bathroom tiles that surround me, my cracks are beginning to show. I splash some water on my face, dry it off, and then exit the bathroom, joining my guests in the living room.

Mr. Preston carries in Gran’s serving tray full of dainty cucumber sandwiches—crusts removed—mini-quiches and other delectable leftovers. I smell the food and my stomach immediately begins to rumble. Mr. Preston puts the tray on the coffee table. Then he brings an additional chair from the kitchen for Juan Manuel. We all take our seats.

I can’t believe it. Here we are in Gran’s sitting room, all four of us. Mr. Preston and I are on the sofa, and in front of me are Charlotte and Juan Manuel. Pleasantries are exchanged, as if this were a friendly tea party, though we all know it is not. Charlotte’s asking about Juan Manuel’s family and how long he’s worked at the Regency Grand. Mr. Preston comments on what a reliable and hard worker he is. Juan Manuel looks down at his lap.

“I work hard, yes,” he says. “Too hard. But still, I have big problems.”

We have tiny plates on our laps filled with little sandwiches, which we are eating, me faster than anyone.

“Eat,” says Charlotte. “Both of you. This isn’t easy. You’ll need to stay strong.”

Juan Manuel leans forward.

“Here,” he says. “Try these.” He places two lovely finger sandwiches on my plate. “I made them.”

I pick up a sandwich and take a bite. It’s an exquisite taste, fluffy cream cheese and smoked salmon, with a burst of dill and lemon zest at the end. I’ve never tasted a sandwich more delicious in my life, so much so that it’s nearly impossible to follow Gran’s chewing imperative. It’s gone before I know it.

“Delightful,” I say. “Thank you.”

We are all silent for a moment, but if others feel uncomfortable I’m not aware. For a brief moment, despite the circumstances, I find myself feeling something I haven’t felt in so long, not since before Gran died. I feel…companionship. I feel…not entirely alone. Then I remember what brought everyone here in the first place, and the anxiety begins to churn again. I put my plate aside.

Charlotte does the same. She picks up the pad and pen by her chair. “Well, we’re all here for the same reason, so we better get started. Juan Manuel, I believe my father filled you in about Molly’s predicament? And I believe you yourself are in a very challenging situation.”

Juan Manuel shifts in his chair. “Yes,” he says. “I am.” His big brown eyes look into mine. “Molly,” he says, “I never wanted to see you involved in this, but when they brought you in, I didn’t know what to do. I hope you believe me.”

I swallow and consider his words. It takes me a moment to spot the difference—between a bold-faced lie and the truth. But then it sharpens and I can see it clearly in his face. What he’s saying is the truth. “Thank you, Juan Manuel. I believe you.”

“Tell her what you told me in the kitchen,” Mr. Preston suggests.

“You know how every night I stayed in a different room at the hotel? How you gave me a different keycard each night?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Mr. Rodney, he wasn’t telling you the whole story. It’s true, I don’t have an apartment anymore. And no work permit now either. When I did, everything was great. I sent money back home. It was needed, because after my dad died, there wasn’t enough. My family was so proud of me—‘You’re a good son,’ my mother said. ‘You work hard for us.’ I was so happy. I was doing things the right way.”

Juan Manuel pauses, swallows, then continues to speak. “But then, when I needed my work permit extended, Mr. Rodney said, ‘No problem.’ He introduced me to his lawyer friend. And that lawyer friend took a lot of my money, but in the end, no permit. I complained to Rodney and he said, ‘My lawyer guy can fix anything. You’ll have a new permit in a few days.’ He told me he’d make sure Mr. Snow didn’t find out. But then he said, ‘You have to help me, too, you know. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’ I didn’t want to scratch his back. I wanted to go back home, to find another way. But I couldn’t go back home. I had no savings left.”

Juan Manuel goes silent.

“What exactly did Rodney make you do?” Charlotte asks.

“At night, after my shift in the kitchen, I’d sneak into whatever hotel room with the keycard Molly gave me. Molly, she’d leave my bag there for me, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “I did. Every night.”

“That bag, it was never mine. It was Mr. Rodney’s. His drugs were inside. Cocaine. And some other things too. He used to bring more drugs later in the night when no one else was around. And then he’d leave. All night, he made me work—sometimes alone, sometimes with Mr. Rodney’s men—and we’d prepare the cocaine for sale. I didn’t know nothing about these things before, I swear. But I learned. I had to learn. Fast.”

“When you say he made you, what do you mean exactly?” Charlotte asks.

Juan Manuel wrings his hands as he speaks. “I told Mr. Rodney, ‘I won’t do this. I can’t. I’d rather be deported than do this. This is wrong.’ But things got worse when I said that. He said he’d kill me. I said, ‘I don’t care. Kill me. This is no life.’ ” Juan Manuel pauses, looks down at his lap, then continues. “But in the end, Mr. Rodney found a way to make me do his bad business.”

Juan Manuel’s face tightens. I notice the dark rings around his eyes and the redness in them. We look the same, he and I—all of our sorrows on full display.

“What did Rodney do then?” Charlotte asks.

“He said if I don’t keep quiet and do his dirty work, he would kill my family back home. You don’t understand. He has bad friends. He knew my address in Mazatlán. He’s a bad man. Sometimes, when I was working late, I got so tired I’d fall asleep in my chair. I’d wake up, forget where I was. Mr. Rodney’s men, they would hit me, throw water at me to keep me awake. Sometimes they burned me with cigars to punish me.” He holds out his arm.

“Molly,” Juan Manuel says. “I made up lies about the dishwasher burning me; I’m sorry. It’s not the truth.” His voice catches and he dissolves into tears. “It’s wrong,” he says. “I know a grown man should not cry like a baby,” he says. He looks up at me. “Molly, when you came in the hotel room that day and saw me with Rodney and his men, I tried to tell you to run away, to go tell someone. I didn’t want them to get you like they got me. But they did. They found a way to get you too.”

Mr. Preston is shaking his head as Juan Manuel continues to sob. My own tears begin to fall.

Suddenly, I feel very tired, more tired than I’ve ever felt in my life. All I want is to get up from the sofa, pad down the hallway to my bedroom, wrap myself up in Gran’s lone-star quilt, and fall asleep forever. I think back to Gran in her last days. Is this what she felt near the end, drained of the will to carry on?

“Looks like we found our rat,” Mr. Preston says.

“Where there’s one, there are more,” Charlotte adds. She turns to Juan Manuel. “Was Rodney working for Mr. Black? Did you ever hear or see anything—anything at all—that might suggest Mr. Black was actually behind this drug operation?”

Juan Manuel wipes the tears from his face. “Mr. Rodney never said much about Mr. Black, but sometimes he took calls. He thinks I’m so stupid that I don’t understand English. But I heard everything. Mr. Rodney would sometimes come into the room late at night with lots and lots of money. He’d set up meetings to give money to Mr. Black. Like more money than I ever seen in my life. Like this.” He makes a gesture with his hands.

“Stacks of bills,” Charlotte said.

“Yes. New. Fresh.”

“There were bundles like that in Mr. Black’s safe the day I found him dead,” I say. “Perfect, clean stacks.”

Juan Manuel continues. “Once, Rodney was really upset because there wasn’t much money coming in that night. He went to meet Mr. Black and when he came back, he had a scar just like mine. But not on his arms. On his chest. That’s how I knew I wasn’t the only one getting punished.”

The pieces come together. I remember the V of Rodney’s crisp, white shirt and the strange round blemish marring his perfectly smooth chest.

“I’ve seen that scar,” I say.

“There’s another thing,” Juan Manuel says. “Mr. Rodney never talked to me directly about Mr. Black. But I know he knows the wife. The new wife. Mrs. Giselle.”

“That’s not possible,” I say. “Rodney assured me he barely ever spoke to her.” But even as I say it, I realize I’m a fool.

“How do you know Rodney knows Giselle?” Charlotte asks.

Juan Manuel takes out his phone from his pocket and flicks through some photos until he finds the one he’s looking for. “Because I caught him,” he says. “How do you say in English en flagrante delito…”

“In flagrante?” Mr. Preston offers.

“Like this,” he says, and turns his phone around to show us a picture.

It’s Rodney and Giselle. They are kissing so passionately in a shadowy hallway of the hotel that they most certainly would not have noticed Juan Manuel taking the picture. My heart feels sore and heavy as I stare at the photo, registering the details—her hair swept across his shoulder, his hand on the small of her arched back. I fear my heart may stop altogether.

“Wow,” says Charlotte. “Can you send that to me?”

“Yes,” Juan Manuel says. They exchange numbers and he texts the photo to her. It takes only a few seconds for the vile proof to replicate on her phone.

Charlotte stands and paces the living room. “It’s becoming more and more clear that Giselle and Rodney had multiple reasons to want Mr. Black dead. But the only way we can prove Molly is innocent is by finding irrefutable proof that one or both of them killed Mr. Black.”

“It wasn’t Giselle,” I say. “She didn’t do it.”

Many skeptical eyes turn my way.

“Oh, Molly. How do you know that?” Charlotte asks.

“I do. I just do.”

Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange that look again, the look of doubt.

Mr. Preston rises to his feet. “I have an idea,” he announces.

“Uh-oh,” Charlotte replies.

“Just hear me out,” he says. “It’s not going to be easy, and we’ll have to work as a team….”

“That’s a given,” says Charlotte.

“I like this team idea,” says Juan Manuel. “It’s not right, the way they treat us.”

“We’ll have to be conniving,” says Mr. Preston. “We’ll have to make a plan that’s ironclad.”

“A plan,” Charlotte says.

“Yes,” Mr. Preston answers. “A plan. To outsmart the fox.”

Chapter 20

It took well over an hour to hash out the details. During that time, I said, “No” and “I can’t” so repeatedly that I sounded, as Gran used to say, like the Little Engine That Couldn’t.

“Yes, you can,” Mr. Preston told me over and over. “Would Columbo give up?”

“You’ve got this, Miss Molly,” Juan Manuel chimed in.

“If I didn’t think you could do this, I wouldn’t be suggesting it,” Charlotte reasoned.

We practiced and practiced. We ran through scenarios and I perfected my answers to all the questions they could come up with. We acted out the possible things that could go wrong. I had to get past the feeling of dissimulating, of not presenting my true thoughts, but Juan Manuel said something that eased my mind: “Sometimes, you must do one thing bad to do another thing good.” He’s right in so many ways, and I know so from experience.

We rehearsed with Juan Manuel playing opposite me, then with Mr. Preston playing opposite me. I had to forget they were my kind friends. I had to think of them as very bad eggs when in fact they are nothing of the sort. We hashed through details, noted key lines, and came up with contingency plans to deal with any eventuality.

And now we’re finished. Charlotte, Mr. Preston, and Juan Manuel are all smiling and sitting taller in their chairs as they stare at me. I can’t quite be sure, but I think I understand what I see in their faces—pride. They believe I can do this. If Gran were here, she’d say, See, Molly? You can do it if you put your mind to it.

I’m feeling better after so much practice, calmer about the entire plan. I must say, I do feel a little like Columbo, with a team of crack investigators around me. Together, we’ve devised a trap that will hopefully result in Rodney being caught in flagrante again—but this time, in a different way entirely.

The first step begins immediately, with me texting him. We’ve strategized exactly what I’ll write. “I’m too nervous,” I say, once I type the message into my phone. “Can someone check it before I press Send?”

Juan Manuel, Mr. Preston, and Charlotte gather round me on the sofa, reading over my shoulder.

“It sounds good,” Juan Manuel says. “The way you speak, it’s so nice all the time. More people should talk like you, Molly.”

He smiles and I feel a tingle of warmth. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“I’d add the word ‘urgently’ to your text,” Mr. Preston suggests.

“Yes, that’s good,” says Charlotte. “Urgently.”

I adjust the message: Rodney, we must meet: urgently. Mr. Black was MURDERED. I made revelations to the police of which you should be aware. I’m sincerely sorry!

“Okay?” I ask, looking for approval from all of them.

“Do it, Molly. Press Send,” Charlotte says.

I squeeze my eyes shut and press the button. I can hear the swoosh of the message leaving my device.

When I open my eyes a few seconds later, three circles appear in a new text box below my sent message.

“Well, well, well,” says Mr. Preston. “Looks like our cretin is in a real hurry to respond.”

My phone trills as Rodney’s message appears: Molly, WTF? Meet me in twenty minutes at the OG.

“OG?” Mr. Preston asks. “What’s that?”

“Original gangster?” Juan Manuel replies.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asks.

Then it comes to me in a flash, and I figure it out. “The Olive Garden,” I say. “That’s where I’m to meet him. Shall I answer?”

“Tell him you’ll be there soon,” Charlotte says.

I try to type a response, but my hands are shaking too much.

“Do you want me to do it?” Charlotte asks.

“Yes, please,” I say.

I hand her the phone and we all watch over her shoulder as she types: K. CU in 20 min.

She’s about to press Send when Juan Manuel stops her. “That doesn’t sound like Molly at all. She’d never write that.”

“Really?” Charlotte says. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You have to make it more pretty,” Juan Manuel offers. “Use respectful language. Maybe use the word ‘delightful.’ Molly uses this word a lot: deelightful. So nice.”

Charlotte erases what she wrote and tries again: This plan sounds delightful, even if the circumstances bringing us together are not. See you soon.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’d say. That’s very good.”

“That’s my Miss Molly,” Juan Manuel adds.

Swoosh. Charlotte sends the message and then hands me my phone.

“Molly,” says Mr. Preston, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready? You know what to say to him, what to do?”

Three concerned faces await my response.

“I’m ready,” I reply.

“You can do this, Molly,” Charlotte says.

“We have faith in you,” Mr. Preston adds.

Juan Manuel gives me a thumbs-up.

They have all put their faith in me. They believe in me. The only one who isn’t sure is me.

You can do it if you put your mind to it.

I take a deep breath, put my phone in my pocket, and walk out the front door.

Chapter 21

I’m at the Olive Garden eighteen minutes later, which is two minutes sooner than my ETA, mostly because I’m so nervous that I speed-walked the entire way. I’m sitting at our booth under the glow of the pendant light, only this time, it doesn’t feel like our booth at all. It will never be our booth ever again.

Rodney hasn’t arrived yet. As I wait, horrific visions loop in my mind—Mr. Black, his skin ashen and drawn, the photo of Rodney and Giselle, two slippery serpents entwined, Gran’s last few minutes of life. I don’t know why these things replay in my mind, but it’s doing nothing to quell my extreme jitters. How I’m going to get through this, I do not know. How will I act normally when the tension is already jangling the core of my being?

When I next look up, there he is, rushing into the restaurant, searching for me. His hair is tousled, the top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing his exasperatingly smooth chest. I imagine taking the fork from my place setting and stabbing him with it, right there, where the V of his shirt frames his naked skin. But then I see his scar, and my dark desire evaporates.

“Molly,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me, “I made an excuse to take off from work for a bit, but I don’t have much time. Let’s make this quick, okay? Tell me everything.”

A waitress comes to our table. “Welcome to the Olive Garden. Can I get you started with some free salad and bread?”

“We’re here for a quick drink,” Rodney replies. “A beer for me.”

I put a finger in the air. “Actually, salad and bread would be lovely. And I’ll also take an appetizer plate and a large pepperoni pizza, please. Oh, and some water? Very, very cold. With ice.” No Chardonnay for me today—I must remain clearheaded. Also, this is not a celebration, not in any way. “Thank you,” I say to the waitress.

Rodney runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.

“Thank you for coming,” I say once the waitress is gone. “It means the world to me that you’re always there when I need you. Such a reliable friend you are.” My face feels stiff and forced as I say this, but Rodney doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m here for you, Molly. Just tell me what happened, okay?”

“Well,” I say as I conceal my shaking hands under the table, “after the detective took me to the station, she told me Mr. Black did not die naturally. She said he was asphyxiated.”

I wait for this to sink in.

“Whoa,” Rodney says. “And you’re the obvious suspect.”

“In fact, I’m not. They’re looking for someone else.” These are the exact words Charlotte instructed me to say.

I watch him carefully. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The waitress returns with bread, salad, and our drinks. I take a long sip of cold water and revel in Rodney’s growing discomfort. I do not touch the food at all. I’m far too nervous. Plus, it’s for later.

“Detective Stark said the persons of interest were most likely motivated by Mr. Black’s will. She thinks they maybe even discussed his will with him before they killed him. Poor Giselle. Do you know that Mr. Black didn’t leave her a thing? Not a single thing, the poor, poor woman.”

“What? The detective told you that? But that can’t be. I know for a fact it can’t be.”

“Do you? I thought you weren’t well acquainted with Giselle,” I say.

“I’m not,” he says. He appears to be sweating though it’s not unduly warm in here. “But I know people who know her well. Anyhow, this isn’t what they told me. So it’s…well, it’s a bit of a surprise.” He takes a gulp of beer and puts his elbows on the table.

“Rude,” I say.

“What?”

“Your elbows on the table. This is a restaurant. That is a dinner table. Proper etiquette requires you to keep your elbows off it.”

He shakes his head but takes his offensive appendages off the table. Victory.

“Salad? Bread?” I offer.

“No,” he replies. “Let’s just get to the point. Didn’t Mr. Black leave Giselle the villa in the Caymans? Did the detective mention that?”

“Hmm,” I say. I pick up my napkin and grip it under the table between my perspiring hands. “I don’t recall anything about a villa. I think the detective said almost everything goes to the first Mrs. Black and the children.” Another tidbit doled out as planned.

“You’re telling me the police volunteered all of this information to you for no good reason?”

“What? Of course not,” I say. “Who would tell me anything? I’m just the maid. Detective Stark left me in a room by myself, and you know how it is. People forget I’m there. Or perhaps they think I’m too daft to understand? I overheard all of this at the station.”

“And weren’t the detectives concerned about the gun in your vacuum? I mean, I’m assuming that’s why they nabbed you, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “It seems Cheryl found the gun and alerted them. Interesting that she knew where to look. For someone so lazy, it’s hard to imagine her searching a dusty vacuum bag.”

Rodney’s face changes. “You’re not suggesting I told her, are you? Molly, you know I would never—”

“I’d never suggest that about you, Rodney. You’re blameless. An innocent,” I say. “Much like me.”

He nods. “Good. I’m glad there’s no misunderstanding here.” He shakes his head the way a wet dog would when it comes out of the water. “So what did you tell the police when they asked about the gun?”

“I simply explained whose gun it was, and where I found it,” I reply. “That raised two eyebrows. Meaning I believe Detective Stark was surprised.”

“So you narced on Giselle, your friend?” he asks. His elbows make an aggravating reappearance on the table.

“I would never betray a true friend,” I say. “But there’s something dreadful I have to tell you. It’s why I called you here.” Here it comes, the moment I’ve prepared for.

“What is it already?” he asks, barely able to keep the rage out of his voice.

“Oh, Rodney. You know how nervous I get in social situations, and I must say that being interrogated by detectives caused me much consternation, as I have very little experience in such matters. Perhaps you’re more accustomed to such ordeals?”

“Molly, get to the point.”

“Right,” I say, wringing my napkin in my hands. “Once the issue of Giselle’s gun was out of the bag—I suppose that’s both literal and figurative in this case—the detective said they would sweep the former Black suite yet again.” I bring my napkin to my eyes as I try to gauge his response to this.

“Go on,” he says.

“I said, ‘Oh, you can’t do that! Juan Manuel is staying in that suite.’ And the detective asked, ‘Who’s Juan Manuel?’ And so I told them. Oh, Rodney, I probably shouldn’t have. I told them how Juan Manuel is your friend and how you’ve been helping him because he has no work permit and—”

“You mentioned me to the detective?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I told them about the overnight bags and the cleaning up after Juan Manuel and your friends, and how good and kind you’ve all been—”

“They’re his friends, not mine.”

“Well, whoever they are, they sure do drag a lot of mess into rooms. But don’t worry, I made sure to let the detective know what a good man you are, even if your friends are a little…dusty.”

He takes his head in his hands. “Oh, Molly. What have you done?”

“I told the truth,” I say. “But I realize I have caused a bit of an issue for Juan Manuel. What if he’s still in the Black suite when they check it again? I’d hate for him to get in any kind of trouble. You’d hate that, too, wouldn’t you, Rodney?”

He nods vigorously. “I would. Yeah. I mean, we’ve got to make sure he’s not in there when they check. And we’ve got to clean that room out, fast, before the police arrive. You know, so there are no traces of Juan Manuel.”

“Of course,” I say. “My thoughts exactly.” I smile at Rodney, but inside I’m pouring a full kettle of boiling water onto his dirty, lying face.

“So you’ll do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” I reply.

“Sneak in and clean the suite. Now. Before the cops get there. You’re the only one besides Chernobyl and Snow who has access. If Mr. Snow catches Juan Manuel there—or worse, if the police do—he’ll be deported.”

“But I’m not supposed to be going to work today. Mr. Snow says I’m ‘a person of interest’ to the police, so—”

“Please, Molly! This is important.” He reaches out and grabs my hand. I want to wrench mine away, but I know I must not move.

We have faith in you.

I hear it in my head, but it’s not Gran’s voice this time. It’s Mr. Preston’s. Then Charlotte’s. Then Juan Manuel’s.

I keep my hand steady under his, my gaze neutral. “You know,” I say, “I’m not allowed to enter the hotel, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enter. What if I quickly sneak into the hotel, grab the right room key, and give it to you? You can then use my trolley and clean up the room yourself! Wouldn’t that be something—you cleaning up your own mess?—I mean, Juan Manuel’s mess.”

His eyes are darting all over the place. The sheen on his forehead is condensing into droplets.

After a few moments, he says, “Okay. All right. You get me the suite key, I clean the room.”

“The suite key tout suite,” I say, but he fails to register my cleverness.

The waitress arrives at our table with the pepperoni pizza and the appetizer plate.

“Would you mind boxing that up, please?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “Was there something wrong with the bread and salad? You didn’t even touch them.”

“Oh no,” I say. “It’s all delightful. It’s just that we’re in a bit of a rush.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll box everything.” She gestures to a colleague, and the two of them take care of the food.

“He’ll have the bill, please,” I say, pointing to Rodney.

His mouth drops open, but he doesn’t say anything, not so much as a word.

Our waitress retrieves the bill from her apron and hands it to him. He pulls out a crisp, fresh $100 bill from his wallet, passes it to her, and says, “Keep the change.” He stands abruptly. “I better run, Molly. I should get back to the hotel and do this right away.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll take all this food home. Then I’ll text you as soon as I make it to the hotel. Oh, and Rodney?”

“What?” he asks.

“It really is a shame that you don’t like jigsaw puzzles.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I say, “I don’t think you quite know the pleasure one feels when suddenly, all the pieces come together.”

He looks at me, his lip curled. It’s so clear, the meaning of the look. I’m an idiot. A fool. And I’m too daft to even know it.

That’s the expression that’s smeared all over his vulgar, lying face.

Chapter 22

I walk quickly all the way home, takeout bags in tow. I’m eager to report back to Mr. Preston, Charlotte, and especially Juan Manuel.

Once I’m in my building, I climb the stairs two by two. I’m rounding the corner to my hallway when I see Mr. Rosso’s door open a sliver. He peeks out, spots me, then slinks back inside, closing the door behind him.

I put down the takeout bags to turn the key in my lock, then I walk through the entrance. “I’m home!” I announce.

Mr. Preston springs to his feet. “Oh, dear girl, you’re back. Thank goodness.”

Charlotte and Juan Manuel are seated in the living room. They, too, jump to their feet the moment they see me.

“How did it go?” Charlotte asks.

Before I can answer Charlotte’s question, Juan Manuel is beside me. He’s grabbed the takeout bags and is now getting out the polishing cloth from the closet. The moment I remove my shoes, he takes them, cleans the bottoms, and puts them away.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“It’s okay. Do you need anything? Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I reply. “I brought takeout. I hope everyone likes the Olive Garden.”

“Like it? I love it,” Juan Manuel replies. He picks up the bags and whisks them away to the kitchen.

“You better tell us how it went,” Charlotte says. “Dad and Juan Manuel have been a nervous wreck since you stepped out that door.”

“Everything went according to plan,” I say. “Rodney’s heading back to the hotel now. He’s none the wiser that I’m the one who’s been arrested, and he believes the police are coming back to search the suite. I told him I’d be there shortly to get him the suite key.” I can’t help but smile as I say this, because I’ve accomplished something I wasn’t sure that I could.

“Perfect. Well done,” Charlotte replies.

“I knew you could do it!” Juan Manuel calls out from the kitchen.

“Dad,” Charlotte says, “your shift starts at six o’clock, right? Are you sure you can get your hands on the key to the Black suite?”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he replies.

“They better be foolproof ones, Dad, because the last thing we need right now is you in trouble too.”

“Don’t you worry. It’s all going to go tickety-boo. Trust your ol’ pa.”

Juan Manuel emerges from the kitchen carrying Gran’s tea tray filled with appetizers and pizza from the Olive Garden.

“I was supposed to be back at work a while ago,” he says. “They keep calling me.” He sets the tray on the coffee table and sits down.

Charlotte shuffles her chair closer to him. “It’s up to you, Juan Manuel, but I’m concerned that if you go back to work today—in fact, if you go to that hotel ever again—Rodney will find a way to use you as he always does, and then you’re going to be the one caught in a trap, not him.”

Juan Manuel looks down at his feet. “Yes, I know,” he says. “I’ll call the kitchen back and tell them I’m sick and can’t finish my shift.”

“Good,” Charlotte says.

“I’ll figure the rest out later,” Juan Manuel adds.

“The rest?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Where to sleep tonight,” he says. “First, we must concentrate on catching the fox.” He nods and smiles, but it’s not the real kind of smile, not the kind that reaches his eyes.

Charlotte looks at Mr. Preston.

“Oh Juan Manuel,” Mr. Preston says. “We weren’t thinking. If you don’t go back to the hotel, that means you have nowhere to sleep tonight.”

“This is my problem, not yours,” he says without looking up. “Don’t worry.”

It occurs to me that there’s an obvious solution, but it’s one that’s also a little bit awkward for me. I’ve never had a guest stay overnight before, but I do think that in this particular instance Gran would urge me to do the right thing. “You can stay here, for tonight,” I say. “There’s plenty of space. You can have my room and I’ll stay in Gran’s room. It will give you some time to consider alternative arrangements.”

He’s looking at me like he doesn’t believe what I’m saying. “Really? Are you serious? You’d let me stay here?”

“Isn’t that what friends are for? To help each other out of binds?”

He’s shaking his head slowly back and forth. “I can’t believe you’d do this for me after everything that’s happened. Thank you. And don’t worry—I’m very quiet. I’m like a good oven—self-cleaning.”

Mr. Preston chuckles and grabs a small plate from the tea tray, filling it with bruschetta, pizza, and fried mozzarella.

I follow his lead and prepare first a small plate for Juan Manuel, then one for myself.

“Courtesy of Rodney,” I say. “He owes us both much more.”

“He does,” Juan Manuel says.

Charlotte gets up and grabs the remote control on the television, turns it to the twenty-four-hour local news channel.

I’m just about to take my first bite of fried mozzarella when what I hear stops me mid-bite.

“…and police will be holding a special press conference in one hour to release important updates on the search for real-estate magnate Charles Black’s killer. We don’t know for sure, but we expect to hear details on the charges and very possibly the identity of the accused, as well as…”

I feel all eyes on me. All of my confidence ebbs away in just a few seconds. “What now?” I ask.

Charlotte sighs. “I was worried about this. The police are eager to reassure the public and take credit for catching the killer.”

“This is not good,” Juan Manuel adds as he puts his plate down on the table.

“What if they say my name? What if Rodney finds out before he even gets to the hotel?”

“It’s five o’clock now. We’ve still got an hour,” Mr. Preston says.

“That’s right,” Charlotte says. “Let’s not panic. I say we stick to the plan. But we don’t have a lot of time.”

The newscaster is reviewing the details of the death and the findings of the autopsy—death by asphyxiation. We all watch in silence. “…and inside sources say that Mr. Black’s wife, socialite Giselle Black, may not be the accused and that she remains a guest at the hotel. But we’ll know more for sure in an hour when—”

Charlotte turns the TV off. “Let’s hope Rodney doesn’t see this and disappear. And that Giselle doesn’t check out anytime soon,” she says.

“She won’t,” I say. “She has nowhere else to go.”

Mr. Preston puts down his plate and gets to his feet. “Looks like I’m heading to work early today,” he says. “Molly, are you ready? You understand the next steps?”

I can’t seem to form words. I feel the world tilt a little, but I know I must forge onward. “I’m ready,” I say.

“Charlotte, when you receive the text from me, you’ll contact Detective Stark?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m actually going to wait right outside the station.”

“Juan Manuel, will you act as mission control from here? We’ll call you when we need your help.”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “You call, I’m on it. I won’t rest until we catch him.”

There is nothing else for me to say or do. I’ve lost my appetite, so I put down my plate.

The deep-fried mozzarella sticks will have to wait.

Chapter 23

Mr. Preston insists we take a cab over to the hotel to save time. We’ve now pulled over just around the corner so the taxi can drop me off. I’m embarrassed when he pays, but I’ve really no choice but to accept his generosity.

“Molly, are you sure you’re okay to walk from here? You know the plan?”

“Yes, Mr. Preston. I’m fine. I’m ready.” I’m saying the words with the hope that the feelings will follow, but the truth is that I’m trembling and the world around me is spinning too fast.

I’m about to step out of the taxi when Mr. Preston puts a hand on my arm. “Molly, your gran would be proud of you.”

The mention of her makes my emotions bubble up, but I will them back down. “Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I manage before slipping out the door.

I watch as Mr. Preston drives away without me.

I walk the last block on my own and wait for ten minutes hidden in an alleyway across from the hotel. It’s eerily beautiful in the late afternoon. The golden light strikes the brass and glass of the entranceway, bathing it in a mysterious glow. The Chens are on their way to an early dinner. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and she’s all in black, except for a bright-pink corsage pinned to her bodice. A young family jumps out of a taxi after a long day of sightseeing, the parents lethargic and slow. Their two children dash up the scarlet steps, holding up souvenirs for the valets to see. It’s always like this at dusk—as if the day is throwing the last of its energy up the steps while the hotel itself patiently waits for the calm of night to come.

The podium is the only spot that’s forlorn and empty. Mr. Preston has not yet arrived. No doubt he’s still downstairs, donning his great coat and hat and signing in early for his shift.

Time is going by unbearably slowly. Nervous tension makes my entire body tremble. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m unsuited to this level of performance. The only thing that gives me strength is the fact that Mr. Preston, Charlotte, and Juan Manuel are in on it.

When you believe in yourself, nothing can stop you.

I’m trying my best, Gran. I am.

It’s time.

I remain where I am, tucked in the alleyway, hiding in the shadows of the coffee shop, up against the wall. At long last he appears, Mr. Preston, smartly uniformed. He walks calmly through the revolving doors and stands at his podium on the hotel landing. He pulls out his phone and sends a text, then tucks it back into his pocket. I lean against the wall even though I know it’s dirty. If all goes well, there will be time for washing later. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll never be clean again.

A couple more minutes go by. Just when I’m starting to fully panic, I spot him down the street—Rodney, walking quickly toward the hotel. I’ll admit that my feelings upon seeing him are mixed. On the one hand, his appearance means things are going according to plan; on the other, the very sight of his lying, cheating face fills me with murderous rage.

He runs up the front steps and stops at the podium. He talks to Mr. Preston. The conversation lasts no more than a minute. Then Rodney heads into the hotel.

Mr. Preston pulls out his phone and dials. I practically jump out of my skin when my pocket starts to vibrate.

I grab my phone. “Hello?” I whisper. “Yes, I saw it all. What did he want?”

“He heard about the press conference,” Mr. Preston explains. “He was asking if I knew who was arrested.”

“What did you tell him?” I ask.

“That I saw Giselle talking with the police. And that she looked upset.”

“Oh dear. That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.

“I had to think fast on my big ol’ feet. You’ll do the same if you have to. You can do this. I know it.”

I take a deep breath. “Anything else?”

“The news conference begins in under forty minutes. We have to be fast. It’s time. Text him now. Proceed as planned.”

“Roger, Mr. Preston. Over and out.”

I end the call and watch Mr. Preston slip his phone away.

I open a text to Rodney:

Help. I’m at the front door of the hotel and they won’t let me in! If I can’t get that keycard for you, whatever will we do?

Rodney’s response is immediate: BRT DGA

What? What on earth is that supposed to mean? I haven’t the faintest clue. Think, Molly, think.

You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.

The answer is literally right at my fingertips. I find Juan Manuel in my contacts and dial his number. He picks up before the end of the first ring.

“Molly? What’s happening? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. The plan is in progress. But…Juan Manuel, I’m in a bit of pickle and I need hasty assistance.” I read Rodney’s text to him.

“You think I know what that means?” he asks. “I feel like I’m on that TV show where you call a friend and they give you the answer and you win big money. But Molly, you called the wrong friend!” He pauses. “Wait. Hold on.” I hear some rustling on the end of the line.

“Okay, Molly? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I checked Google. Rodney means Be Right There. Don’t Go Anywhere. Okay? Does that make sense?”

It does. It absolutely does. I’m back on track. “Juan Manuel, I could…”

I could kiss him. That’s what I want to say—that I’m so grateful I could kiss him. But it’s such a bold and ridiculous thought, so unlike me, that it catches in my throat and doesn’t make it out.

“Thank you,” I say instead.

“Go get the fox, Molly,” he replies. “I will BRT when you get back home.”

I know he’s not here with me, but it feels like he is. It’s like he’s holding my hand through the line.

“Yes. Thank you, Juan Manuel.”

I hang up and tuck my phone away.

It’s time.

I take a deep breath, then walk out of the shadows onto the sidewalk.

Always look both ways….

I cross the street, trying to do so normally, without rushing, reminding myself to act as though it’s just another ordinary day. I steady myself at the landing, holding tightly to the brass rail. Then I put one foot in front of the other, and I climb the plush red stairs.

Mr. Preston sees me. He picks up the hotel phone on his podium and makes a call. I can hear him sounding perfectly believable when he says, “Yes. Urgently. She’s here at the front door and she won’t leave.”

As planned, Mr. Preston is wearing white gloves, not part of his regular uniform. He usually wears these only on special occasions, but they’ll come in handy today.

“Molly,” he says loudly and brusquely. “What are you doing here? You can’t be at the hotel today. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He looks around to make sure people are watching. Several guests are streaming in and out of the hotel. A couple of valets on the sidewalk stop what they’re doing and watch as well. It’s as though I’m an engaging spectator sport.

Though it feels so strange to do so, it’s time to play my part, to draw even more attention my way. “I have every right to be here,” I call out in a confident, booming voice. “I’m an esteemed employee of this hotel, and—”

I stop short when Mr. Snow emerges from the revolving doors.

Mr. Preston swiftly moves toward him. “I’ll get Security,” he tells Mr. Snow, then heads through the revolving doors.

Mr. Snow rushes over to me. “Molly,” he says. “I’m sorry to inform you that you are no longer employed at the Regency Grand Hotel. You must leave the grounds immediately.”

The words are a shock to me, and I must say I feel utterly bereft when I hear them. Still, I breathe deeply and stick to my performance, delivering my next lines even louder than my previous ones. “But I’m a model employee! You can’t just fire me without cause!”

“As you well know, there is cause, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “We need you off these steps. Now.”

“This is inconceivable,” I say. “I won’t leave.”

Mr. Snow straightens his glasses. “You’re disturbing the guests,” he hisses.

I look around and see that more guests have gathered. It seems the valets have tipped off Reception. Several employees from the concierge desk are standing by them, whispering to one another. They’re all looking my way.

For the next few minutes, I keep Mr. Snow engaged on the stairs, demanding explanations, begging him to reconsider, talking at length about the added value of my devotion to hygiene and the high level of quality I bring to the hotel with each guest room that I clean. I channel Gran, how she used to be in the morning, how she would chirp and chirp and chirp without so much as a pause for breath. The whole time, I’m aware that we have only a few minutes left before the whole plan falls apart. I’m also aware that I’m not in uniform, which adds to my distress and general discomfort. Come back, Mr. Preston. Quickly! I think to myself.

At long last, he walks briskly through the revolving doors and stands beside Mr. Snow.

“I can’t find Security, sir,” he announces.

“I can’t get her to leave,” Mr. Snow replies.

“Let me handle this,” Mr. Preston says. Mr. Snow nods and steps aside. “Molly, a word…”

Mr. Preston gently pulls me aside, out of earshot. We both turn our backs to the curious crowd.

“Did it work?” I whisper.

“It did. I found Cheryl.”

“And then what?” I ask.

“I got what I wanted.”

“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 transfer seamlessly 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.

Chapter 24

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 5:59 p.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.

I take a sip of tea and nearly choke when I see my face appear on the screen. It’s a photograph that was taken when I was hired, for my HR file. I didn’t smile for the picture, but at least I look professional. I’m wearing my uniform. It’s clean, freshly pressed. The captions continue to scroll:

…currently out on bail. Anyone requiring further information is invited to…

I tune out then because I hear cars coming to a screeching halt. Across the street, right in front of the hotel, are four dark cruisers. Several armed officers jump out of the vehicles and run up the stairs. I watch as Mr. Preston ushers them in. The whole event lasts only a few seconds. Mr. Preston emerges again from the revolving doors, followed by Mr. Snow. They exchange a few words and then turn to the various guests on the landing, no doubt reassuring them that everything is fine when everything is most definitely not fine. I feel completely helpless as I watch from afar. There’s nothing to do except wait and hope. And make a call. One important call.

It’s time.

This is the only part of the plan that I have kept to myself all this time. I never shared it with anyone—not with Mr. Preston or Charlotte or even Juan Manuel. There are still some things that only I know, things only I can understand because I’ve lived them. I know what it’s like to be alone, to be so alone that you make the wrong choices, that out of desperation you trust the wrong people.

I open my contacts on my phone. I call Giselle.

It rings once, twice, three times, and just when I think that she won’t answer…

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Giselle. It’s Molly, Molly the maid. Your friend.”

“Oh my God, Molly. I’ve been waiting for you to call. I haven’t seen you at the hotel. I’ve missed you. Is everything all right?”

I don’t have time for niceties, and I do believe this is one of the few situations in life when skipping the rules of etiquette is entirely appropriate. “You lied to me,” I say. “Rodney’s your boyfriend. Your secret boyfriend. You never told me that.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Oh, Molly,” she says after a time, “I’m so sorry.” I can hear it in her voice, that little catch that tells me she is near tears.

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” she replies.

I feel the sting of this like a barb.

“Molly, I’m lost. I’m…I’m so lost,” she says. She’s crying openly now, her voice meek and scared.

“You made me move your gun,” I say.

“I know. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in my mess. I was scared, scared the police would find it and then everything would point to me. And I figured they’d never suspect you.”

“The police found your gun in my vacuum. Everything’s pointing to me now, Giselle. I’ve been arrested on many charges. It was publicly announced a few minutes ago.”

“Oh God. This can’t be happening,” she says.

“It is happening. To me. And I did not kill Mr. Black.”

“I know that,” she says. “But I didn’t either, Molly. I swear.”

“I know,” I say. “Did you realize that Rodney would frame me?”

“Molly, I swear I didn’t. And the stuff Rodney made you do, cleaning rooms after his shipments? I only found that out on Monday morning. Before that, I had no idea. That black eye he has? That’s because I hit him when he told me. We had a big fight about it. I told him it wasn’t right, that you were an innocent, good person, and that he couldn’t just use people like that. I flung my purse at him, Molly. I was so mad. The chain whopped him right in the eye.”

That was one mystery solved, but only one. “Did you know that Rodney and Mr. Black were partners in illicit activity?” I ask. “Did you know that they were running an illegal operation through the hotel?”

I hear her shift and shuffle on the end of the line. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve known for a while. That’s why we spent so much time in this fucking hotel. But the part about you? About Rodney involving you in his dirty work? I didn’t know that until this week. If I’d known earlier, I swear, I would have put a stop to it. And I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with Charles’s murder. Rodney and I joked about it, sure, how we would fix our lives and finally be able to be together openly, just by offing his boss and my husband with the same bullet. We even planned running away together, far away.”

It clicks then. The flight itinerary, two one-way tickets. “To the Caymans,” I say.

“Yes, to the Caymans. That’s why I asked Charles to put that property in my name. I was going to leave him and run away, file for divorce from afar. Rodney and I were going to start a new life, a better life. Just the two of us. But I never actually thought…I didn’t know Rodney could actually be capable of…”

She trails off. “Have you ever felt betrayed, Giselle?” I ask. “Have you ever put a great deal of faith in someone who then let you down?”

“You know I have. You know it all too well,” she says.

“Mr. Black, he let you down.”

“He did,” she says. “But he’s not the only one. Rodney too. It seems I’m an expert at trusting assholes.”

“It may be something else we have in common,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Giselle. “But I’m not like them, Molly. Charles and Rodney, I’m not like them at all.”

“Aren’t you?” I ask. “My gran used to say, If you want to know where someone’s going, don’t watch their mouths, watch their feet. I never understood that until now. She also said, The proof is in the pudding.”

“The proof’s in the…what?”

“It means I won’t trust your words anymore. I won’t.”

“Molly, I made a mistake is all. I made a stupid fucking mistake in asking you to go back into that suite and do my dirty work for me. Please. I won’t let you go down for this. They can’t get away with it.”

Her voice is raw and real, but can I trust what I hear?

“Giselle, you’re at the hotel now? You’re in your room?”

“Yeah. A princess locked in the tower. Molly, you have to let me help you. I’m going to speak out, okay? I’ll tell the police it was my gun and I told you to get it. I’ll even tell them that Rodney and Charles were running a cartel. I’m going to get you cleared, I promise. Molly, you’re the only true friend I’ve ever had.”

I feel the rush of tears break over the banks of my eyes. I hope it’s true, I really do. I hope she’s a good egg caught in a rotten basket. It’s time to put her to the test.

“Giselle, you need to listen to me. You need to listen very, very carefully, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, through sniffles.

“Can you get to the Cayman Islands?”

“Yeah. I have open tickets. I can go anytime.”

“Do you still have your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Do not contact Rodney. Do you understand?”

“But shouldn’t I let him know that—”

“He doesn’t care a jot about you, Giselle. Can’t you see that? He’ll take you down, too, at the first chance. You’re just another pawn in his game.”

I hear her struggle to draw in breath. “Oh, Molly, I wish I were more like you. I’m not. I’m not at all. You’re strong. You’re honest. You’re good. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can be alone.”

“You’ve always been alone, Giselle. Poor company is worse than none.”

“Let me guess. Your gran told you that?”

“She did,” I say. “And she’s right.”

“How could I have ever fallen for a man so…”

“Vile?” I offer.

“Yes,” she says. “So vile.”

“Vile and evil are composed of the same letters. One begets the other.”

“Rodney and Charles,” she says.

“Vile and evil,” I reply. “Giselle, we don’t have much time. I need you to do as I say. And it has to be fast.”

“Okay,” she says. “Whatever you ask, Molly.”

“I want you to pack your basic necessities into a single bag. I want you to carry your passport and whatever money you have right next to your heart. And I want you to run. Not out the front doors of the hotel, but out the back ones. Right now. Do you hear me?”

“But what about you? I can’t just let you—”

“If you are a friend, you will do this for me. I’m not alone anymore. I have real friends, true ones. I’m going to be fine. I’m asking you to do as I say. Go now, Giselle. Run.”

She keeps talking, but I don’t listen because I’ve said everything I need to say. I know it’s rude, and if this weren’t an extraordinary situation, I certainly wouldn’t behave in this curt and clipped manner. I hang up on her without another word.

When I look up from my phone, there’s a coffee-shop employee standing by my table. She’s shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. I recognize this behavior. It’s what I do when I’m waiting for my turn to speak.

“Was that you?” she asks. She points to the TV screen.

How am I supposed to answer?

Honesty is the best policy.

“That was me. Yes.”

There’s a pause as she takes this in.

“Oh, I should add that I didn’t do it. Murder Mr. Black, I mean. I’m not a killer. You have nothing at all to worry about.” I take a sip from my mug.

The coffee-shop employee stiffens and sidles away from my table. She turns her back on me only once she’s safely behind the counter. I watch as she rushes to the kitchen, where she is no doubt talking to her supervisor, who will soon come out and look at me with wide eyes. I will recognize the expression instantly. I will know that it means fear because I’m getting better at this—understanding the subtle cues, the body language that expresses emotional states.

The more you live, the more you learn.

That same supervisor will look me up and down and verify that it’s me, the one on the news. She will call the police. The police will say something to calm her down, tell her not to worry or that the news conference had the details wrong.

All will be well. In the end.

I take a deep breath. I enjoy another calming sip of tea. I wait and I watch the hotel entrance.

And then: there it is at last—what I’ve been waiting for….

The police emerge through the revolving doors with a man in front of them—Rodney, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, making it easy to see his lovely forearms in handcuffs. Trailing behind him is Detective Stark. She’s carrying a navy-blue duffel bag that I recognize immediately. The zipper is half-open. Even from here, I can tell it’s not filled with a dishwasher’s clothes and personal effects but with bags containing white powder.

I pick up one neat quarter of my raisin-bran muffin. How lovely. It’s fresh. Isn’t it interesting that this shop bakes goods in the late afternoon? You wouldn’t think many people would choose muffins in the afternoon, but there you have it. Perhaps there are others out there in the world just like me.

People are a mystery that can never be solved.

It’s true, Gran. Very true indeed.

The muffin is delightful. It melts in my mouth. It feels good to eat. It’s something so human, so satisfying. It’s something we all have to do to live, something every person on Earth has in common. I eat, therefore I am.

Rodney’s head is pushed down into the backseat of one of the police cruisers. Several of the officers who ran into the hotel a few minutes ago are standing guard at the bottom stair. Nervous hotel guests huddle on the landing, seeking comfort and reassurance from their doorman.

Detective Stark climbs the stairs, says something to Mr. Preston. I see them both look my way. There’s no way they can see me, not with the late-afternoon light hitting the shop window.

Detective Stark nods my way, almost imperceptibly, but still, it’s a nod. It’s meant for me. I’m certain of it. What I’m not certain of is what it means, this small gesture from afar. I’ve definitely had my fair share of trouble interpreting Detective Stark, so all guesses are just that—suppositions, not certainties.

I have never been one for gambling, mostly because money has been so hard for me to earn and so easy to lose. But were I to place a bet, I’d say that Detective Stark’s nod carried a specific meaning. And what it meant was: I was wrong.

Chapter 25

I walk at a leisurely pace back to my apartment. It’s funny how when you’re feeling the impact of stress, it’s hard to appreciate the small, inspiring things around you—the birds chirping their last lullabies before puffing up for a night’s sleep, the cotton-candy sky as the sun sets, the fact that you’re on your way home and unlike every other day for the last several months, when you open your front door, there will be a friend there waiting for you. It may be the first time since Gran’s death that I feel such a sense of hope.

Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

My building is up ahead. I quicken my pace. I know Juan Manuel will be desperate for news, real news, not just a thumbs-up emoji.

I glide through the front doors and take the steps to my floor two by two. I turn down my hallway, take out my key and enter.

“I’m home!” I call out.

Juan Manuel rushes my way and is standing much closer than a trolley-length away from me, not that his proximity bothers me. I’ve never had an issue with people being near me. My issue has always been the opposite—that people keep their distance.

“Híjole, you’re home,” he says, his hands together. He opens the closet, grabs the shoe cloth, and waits as I take off my shoes.

“Did it work?” he asks. “Did they catch the fox?”

“Yes,” I say. “I saw it with my own eyes. They caught Rodney.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. You must tell me everything. You’re okay? Tell me—you’re okay?”

“Juan Manuel, I’m fine. I’m very well indeed.”

“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Very good.” He grabs my shoes and rubs at the soles as if a genie were going to materialize from them. His aggressive polishing mercifully concludes and he puts my shoes and the cloth away in the closet. Then he hugs me. I’m so surprised by this sudden display of affection that my arms flail out and I forget that the correct thing to do is to hug back. Just when I realize this, he lets go.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“For getting home safe,” he says. “Come. To the kitchen. I prepared a small dinner for us. I tried to have hope, Molly, but I was worried. I thought maybe the police would come and take me away or maybe you would never come back. I had bad, bad thoughts about if they…” He trails off.

“If they what?” I ask.

“Rodney and his men,” he says. “If they…hurt you the way they hurt me.”

I feel the room tilt thirty degrees at the very thought, but I breathe deeply to settle myself.

“Come,” Juan Manuel says.

I follow him to the kitchen, where he’s laid out a spread. It’s the leftovers from the Olive Garden, put together beautifully on plates for each of us. He’s even lain Gran’s black-and-white-checkered tablecloth for additional Italian ambience. The effect is charming. Our tiny kitchen nook is transformed into a scene on a tourist postcard. It feels as though I’m in a dream, and it takes me a moment to recover my voice.

“This looks so lovely, Juan Manuel,” I manage to say. “Do you know that for the first time in a long time, I think I can eat a full meal?”

“We eat, and you tell me everything,” he says.

We sit down together, but no sooner than he’s seated does he spring to his feet once more. “Oh, I forgot,” he says.

He hurries to the living room and returns with one of Gran’s candlesticks and a matchbox. “Can we light this?” he asks. “I know it’s special, but today is special, too, no? Today, they catch the right man?”

“Yes, they drove him away in a police car,” I say. “And I hope this means good things for both of us.” Even as the words leave my lips, doubt creeps in. One thing is to have hope; another thing is to trust that all will end the way it should—for Juan Manuel, and for me.

He places the candle between us. Just as we’re about to pick up our forks, my phone rings in my pocket and I practically jump out of my chair. It’s Charlotte. Thank goodness.

“Charlotte?” I say. “This is Molly. Molly Gray.”

“Yes,” she answers. “I know. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m quite well. Thank you for asking. I’m here at home with Juan Manuel and we are about to take a Tour of Italy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not important. Can you tell me how things went inside the hotel? I saw it happen, from the coffee shop, but did the plan work? Did they catch Rodney in flagrante?”

“Things went very well, Molly. Listen, I can’t talk much now. I’m at the police station. Detective Stark wants me in her office. You and Juan Manuel stay right there, okay? Dad and I will be your way as soon as we can. This will probably take a couple of hours. And I think you’ll be very pleased with the results.”

“Okay, yes. Thank you, Charlotte,” I say. “Give my regards to Detective Stark.”

“You want me to…are you sure?”

“There’s no reason to be impolite.”

“Okay, Molly. I’ll say hello from you.”

“Please tell her I can read nods.”

“You can what?”

“Just say that, please, exactly that. And thank you.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says. Then she ends the call. I put my phone away.

“I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. I’ll have you know that it’s not my usual practice to take calls during dinner. I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

“Molly, you worry too much about ‘this is right’ and ‘this is not right.’ I just want to know what Charlotte said.”

“They caught him in the act. Rodney.”

“En flagrante delito?”

“In flagrante, yes.”

A smile spreads across Juan Manuel’s face and into his dark-brown eyes. Gran once told me that a real smile happens in the eyes, something I never really understood until right now.

“Molly, I never had a chance before to speak with just you, to say sorry. I never wanted you to be involved in any of this.”

I have picked up my fork, but I immediately put it down.

“Juan Manuel,” I say, “you tried to keep me out of this. You even tried to warn me.”

“Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe I should have told the police everything. The problem is I don’t trust the police. When they look at people like me, sometimes all they see is bad. And not all police are good, Molly. How can you tell who is who? I worried if I talked about the drugs and the hotel, maybe things would get even worse—for me and for you.”

“Yes,” I say. “I understand. I’ve had my own troubles telling who is who.”

“And Rodney and Mr. Black,” he continues. “I no longer cared if they killed me. But my mother? My family? I was so scared they’d hurt them. And I was scared they’d hurt you too. I thought, if I just take the pain, if I stay quiet, maybe no one else gets hurt.”

His wrists are on the table, not his elbows. I’m struggling to focus on his face because all I can see are the scars on his forearms, some healed over and one or two still raw.

I point to Juan Manuel’s arms. “Was it him?” I ask. “Did Rodney do that to you?”

“Not Rodney,” he says. “His friends. The big ones. But Rodney gave the orders. Mr. Black burns Rodney, so Rodney burns me. This is what I get for complaining, for saying I don’t want to do Rodney’s dirty work. And for having a family I love when he doesn’t have one.”

“It’s so wrong, what they did to you.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is. And what they did to you.”

“Your arms. They look sore,” I say.

“They were. But today, they’re okay. Today, I feel a little bit better. I don’t even know what will happen to me, but I still feel good because Rodney is caught. And we have a candle to light. And so there’s hope.” He takes a match out of the matchbox and lights the candle. Then he says, “We shouldn’t let the food get cold. Let’s eat.”

We pick up our forks, and we enjoy the meal. I have ample time, not only to chew the correct number of times but also to savor each and every bite. Between bites, I recount every detail of the afternoon—how I sat at the coffee shop, how I waited and worried, how I saw myself on TV, how the cars screeched to a halt, how it felt to see Rodney’s head being unceremoniously pushed into the backseat of a cruiser. When I tell him about the woman at the coffee shop recognizing me from the news, he starts to laugh out loud. For a moment, I’m frozen. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or with me.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“She thought you were a murderer! In her shop. Drinking tea and eating a cake!”

“It wasn’t a cake,” I say. “It was a muffin, a raisin-bran muffin.”

He laughs even harder at that, and I don’t know why, but what becomes clear is that he’s laughing with me. Suddenly, I find myself laughing, too, laughing at a raisin-bran muffin without even knowing why.

After dinner, Juan Manuel starts clearing the dishes.

“No,” I say. “You were very kind to serve dinner. I’ll clean up.”

“Not fair,” he replies. “You think you’re the only one who likes to clean? Why do you take away my joy?”

He smiles again in that way of his, and he grabs Gran’s apron from behind the kitchen door. It’s blue-and-pink paisley with flowers, but he doesn’t seem to care. He loops it over his head and hums to himself as he ties the string. I haven’t seen that apron on anyone in so long; even Gran herself was too ill to use it in her final months. And to see it become three-dimensional, to see a body give it shape again…I don’t know why, but it makes me look away.

I turn to the table and gather the remaining dishes as Juan Manuel prepares the sink with soapy water.

Together, we make quick progress on the mess, and in just a few minutes, the entire kitchen is perfectly gleaming.

“See?” he says. “I’ve worked in kitchens all my life—big ones, small ones, family ones—and at the end of the day to see a clean counter makes the heart jump with joy.”

“Jump for joy?” I say.

“Ah yes. Jump for joy.”

I look at him in the glow of Gran’s candle, and it’s as if I’ve never really looked properly. I’ve seen this man every day at work for months on end, and now, suddenly, he is more handsome than I’ve ever noticed before.

“Do you ever feel invisible?” I ask. “At work, I mean. Do you ever feel like people don’t see you?”

He’s taking off Gran’s apron, replacing it on the hook by the door.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’m used to this feeling. I know what it’s like to be completely invisible, to feel alone in a strange world. To be afraid for the future.”

“It must have been terrible for you,” I say. “To be forced to help Rodney even though you knew it was a bad thing to do.”

“Sometimes, you must do one thing bad to do another thing good. It’s not always so clear, so black and white like everyone thinks. Especially when you don’t have choices.”

Yes. He’s absolutely right.

“Tell me something, Juan Manuel,” I say. “Do you like puzzles? Jigsaw puzzles?”

“Do I like them? I love them.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. I feel my stomach sink and find my legs are glued to the floor.

“Molly, can we open?…Molly?”

“Yes, of course,” I say.

I force my legs to move. We both reach the door. I unlock and open it.

Charlotte and Mr. Preston are standing there, and behind them, Detective Stark.

My knees weaken and I brace myself against the doorframe.

“It’s okay, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “It’s okay.”

“The detective is here with good news,” Charlotte adds.

I hear the words, but I’m unable to move. Juan Manuel is at my side, keeping me upright. I hear a door open down the hall and the next thing I see is Mr. Rosso standing behind Detective Stark. It’s like a party at my front door.

“I knew it!” he yells. “I knew you were no good, Molly Gray. I saw you on the news! I want you out of this building, you hear me? Officer, get her out of here!”

I can feel the rush of shame burning into my cheeks, robbing me of my voice.

Detective Stark turns to Mr. Rosso. “Actually, sir. That news report was misinformed. There’ll be a correction issued in about an hour. Molly is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. In fact, she’s tried to help with this case, and that wasn’t understood at first. That’s why I’m here.”

“Sir,” Charlotte says to Mr. Rosso, “as I’m sure you’re aware, you can’t simply evict tenants with no cause. Has Ms. Gray paid the rent?”

“Late, but yes, she paid,” he replies.

“Ms. Gray is a model tenant who does not deserve your harassment,” Charlotte says. “Also, Detective Stark,” she says, “did you notice any elevator in this—”

“I’m sorry, I must go,” Mr. Rosso says, and begins to rush away.

“Goodbye!” Charlotte calls after him.

The hall is quiet. We’re all standing at my door. All eyes are on me. I don’t know what to do.

Mr. Preston clears his throat. “Molly, would you be so kind as to invite us in?”

My legs rouse themselves from their torpor. As I regain my strength, Juan Manuel’s grip releases.

“My apologies,” I say. “I’m not accustomed to receiving so many guests. But it’s not unwelcome company. Do come in.”

Juan Manuel stands like a sentinel to the side of the door, greeting each guest and asking them to take off their shoes, which he wipes down with shaky hands and neatly places in the front closet.

All of my guests walk into the sitting room and stand awkwardly. What are they waiting for?

“Please,” I say. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Preston goes to the kitchen and comes back with two chairs, which he places across from the sofa.

“Would anyone like tea?” I ask.

“I’d murder for a cuppa,” Mr. Preston says.

“Dad!”

“Poor choice of words. Apologies.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Preston,” I say. I turn to Detective Stark. “We all make mistakes from time to time, don’t we, Detective?”

Detective Stark appears very interested in her own stockinged feet. It must be unusual for her, to take off her boots on a work call, to have her tender tootsies so exposed.

“So,” I say. “What about that tea?”

“I will make it,” Juan Manuel replies. His eyes flit to the detective and then he makes a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

Mr. Preston offers Detective Stark a seat, and she obliges. Charlotte sits in her usual chair. I take my place on the sofa, with Mr. Preston beside me in the spot where Gran always sat, before.

“As you can imagine,” I say, “I’m most curious to know what has transpired in the last few hours. I would most expressly appreciate knowing if I remain accused of murder.”

I hear a spoon clatter against the tiled floor in the kitchen.

“Sorry!” Juan Manuel calls out.

“All charges against you are dropped,” Detective Stark says.

“All of them,” Charlotte repeats. “The detective wanted you to come to the station so she could tell you in person, but I insisted she face you here instead.”

“Thank you,” I say to Charlotte.

She leans forward in her chair, looking right into my eyes. “You’re innocent, Molly. You understand? They know that now.”

I hear the words. They register in my head, but I don’t quite believe them. Words without action can be deceiving.

Mr. Preston gives my knee a little pat. “There, there. All’s well that ends well.” It’s exactly what Gran would have said, were she still alive.

“Molly,” Detective Stark says, “I’m here because we’re going to need your help. We received a call from Mr. Snow this afternoon urging us to come to the hotel immediately. He was tipping us off to new developments.”

Juan Manuel emerges from the kitchen, his face pale and drawn. He’s carrying Gran’s tea tray, which he sets on the table. He backs away then, several trolley-lengths from the detective.

Detective Stark doesn’t notice. She eyes the tray and chooses Gran’s cup, which bothers me no end, but never mind.

“Juan Manuel,” I say as I stand up. “Please take my seat.” I wish I had another chair to offer him, but alas, I do not.

“No, no,” he says. “Please, you sit, Molly. I stand.”

“Good idea,” Detective Stark says. “Less chance of her fainting again.”

I sit back down.

The detective adds some sugar to her tea, stirs, then continues. “When we entered the former Black suite today, the bartender of the Social Bar & Grill, Rodney Stiles, and two of his associates, were inside.”

“Two imposing gentlemen with an interesting array of facial tattoos?” I ask.

“Yes, you know them?”

“I thought they were guests of the hotel,” I say. “I was told they were Juan Manuel’s friends.” As soon as I say it, I regret it.

It’s as though Mr. Preston can read my mind, for he immediately says, “Don’t worry, Molly. The detective knows all about Rodney and the blackmailing against Juan Manuel. And the…violent acts against him too.”

Juan Manuel is standing motionless just outside of the kitchen. I know what this feels like—to be discussed as if you’re not even there.

“Molly, can you tell the detective why you cleaned rooms for Rodney whenever he asked? Just tell the detective the truth,” Charlotte says.

I look to Juan Manuel. I won’t say another word without his consent. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can tell them.”

I then proceed to explain everything, how Rodney lied, that he told me Juan Manuel was his friend and that he was homeless, how he had me clean rooms without me realizing what it was I was wiping away, how he deceived me—and how he used Juan Manuel.

“I didn’t know what was actually going on in those rooms every night. I didn’t realize Juan Manuel was being violently assaulted. I thought I was helping a friend.”

“Why did you believe him, though?” Detective Stark asks. “Why did you believe Rodney when it was pretty obvious that drugs were involved?”

“What’s obvious for you, Detective, isn’t always obvious for everyone else. As my gran used to say, ‘We’re all the same in different ways.’ The truth is, I trusted Rodney. I trusted a bad egg.”

Juan Manuel remains statue-still outside of the kitchen.

“Rodney used me and Juan Manuel to make himself invisible,” I say. “I see that now.”

“You’re right,” Detective Stark replies. “We’ve caught him, though. We found large quantities of benzodiazepine and cocaine in that suite. It was literally right in his hands.”

I think of Giselle’s “benz friends” in an unmarked bottle, most likely supplied by Rodney.

“We’ve charged him with several drug-related offenses, possession of an illegal firearm, and threatening an officer.”

“Threatening an officer?” I say.

“He pulled a handgun when the door of the suite opened. Same make and model as the one we found in your vacuum, Molly.”

It’s hard to imagine—Rodney in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled, pulling a gun rather than a pint of beer at the bar.

It’s Juan Manuel who notices what I do not. All eyes turn to him as he speaks. “You mentioned many charges. But you never mentioned murder.”

Detective Stark nods. “We have also charged Rodney with the first-degree murder of Mr. Black. But to be perfectly honest, we’re going to need your help to make that charge stick. There are still a few things we can’t figure out.”

“Such as?” Charlotte prompts.

“When we first went into the Black suite the day you found him dead, Molly, there were no traces of Rodney’s fingerprints anywhere in that whole suite. In fact, there were hardly any prints anywhere. And traces of your cleaning solution were found on Mr. Black’s neck.”

“Because I checked his pulse. Because—”

“Yes. We know, Molly. We know you didn’t kill him.”

It occurs to me then. “It’s my fault.”

Everyone looks my way.

“What could you possibly mean by that?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The fact that you couldn’t find Rodney’s prints anywhere. When I clean a room, I leave it in a state of perfection. If Rodney ever entered that room and left prints behind, I would have wiped them away without even knowing it. I’m a good maid. Maybe too good.”

“You may be right,” Detective Stark says. She smiles then, but not a full smile, not the kind that reaches the eyes. “We’re wondering if you know anything about Giselle Black’s whereabouts. After we arrested Rodney, we rushed to her hotel room, but she was already gone. Seems she saw us ambush the hotel and took off in a real hurry. She left a note on Regency Grand stationery.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

“It said, ‘Ask Molly the Maid. She’ll tell you. I didn’t do it. Rodney and Charles = BFFs.’ ”

“BFFs?” I say.

“Best friends forever,” Charlotte offers. “She’s saying Rodney and Charles were accomplices.”

“Yes,” says Juan Manuel. “They were accomplices.” All eyes turn his way. He continues to speak. “Rodney and Mr. Black talked a lot on the phone. Sometimes, they argued. About money. About shipments and territories and deals. Nobody thinks I hear anything, but I do.”

The detective turns her chair to face Juan Manuel. “We’d be very interested in taking your witness statement,” she says.

A look of alarm crosses Juan Manuel’s face.

“They’re not going to charge you,” Charlotte says. “Or deport you. They know you’re a victim of crime. And they need your help to try the perpetrator.”

“That’s right,” the detective says. “We understand that you were threatened and coerced to cooperate with Rodney, that you suffered…physical assault. And we know you had a work permit that ran out.”

“It didn’t just ‘run out,’ ” Juan Manuel says. “It ran into Rodney.”

Detective Stark cocks her head to one side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Juan Manuel explains how Rodney put him in touch with an immigration lawyer, only to have his money disappear and his papers never materialize.

“This ‘lawyer.’ You have his name?”

Juan Manuel nods.

The detective shakes her head. “Looks like we have another case to pursue.”

Charlotte jumps in. “Juan Manuel, if you support us as a key witness in the case against Rodney, maybe we can also catch this so-called lawyer. Catch him before he does this to more people.”

“No one else should go through this,” Juan Manuel says.

“That’s right. And Juan Manuel,” Charlotte says. “My partner García handles immigration law in our firm. If you want, I can introduce you to him, see if he can get your work permit reinstated.”

“I would like to talk to him, yes,” Juan Manuel says. “I have many concerns—Mr. Snow, for one thing. He knows what I did. He knows I stayed quiet when I should have talked. He will fire me for sure.”

“He won’t,” Mr. Preston says. “He needs you now more than ever.”

“We all do,” Detective Stark adds. “We need you to corroborate that Rodney and Mr. Black were running a cartel through the hotel, that they were using and abusing you. With your help, we might also be able to figure out what pushed Rodney to commit murder. He maintains he’s innocent on that charge. Admits to the drug charges, but not to murder. Not yet.”

Juan Manuel is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I will help you if I can.”

“Thank you,” Detective Stark says. “And Molly, is there anything else you can tell us about Giselle? Do you have any idea where she could be?”

“She’ll appear, when she’s ready,” I say.

“Let’s hope,” Detective Stark says.

I imagine Giselle on a faraway white-sand beach, clicking through news feeds on her phone and learning of Rodney’s arrest. She’ll find out that I’m no longer a suspect. What will she do then? Will she reach out to the police? Or will she put it all behind her? Will she grift her way into another rich man’s wallet or will she actually grow and change?

I have never been a very good judge of character. I see the truth too late. It’s like Juan Manuel said: sometimes, you have to do one thing bad to do another thing good. Perhaps this time, Giselle will do one thing good. Or perhaps not.

“What happens now?” I ask. “For Juan Manuel? For me?”

“Well,” Detective Stark says. “You’re free. All charges are dropped.”

“But am I still fired?” I ask. The very thought of it makes me feel like I’m falling off a cliff to my doom.

“No, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “You won’t lose your job. In fact, Mr. Snow will talk to you and to Juan Manuel about that himself.”

“Really?” I say. “He won’t fire either of us?”

“He said you’re both model workers and that you exemplify what it means to be Regency Grand employees,” Mr. Preston says.

“But what about the trial?” I ask.

“That won’t be for a long while,” Charlotte replies. “We’ll prepare for it, and that will take many months. But hopefully, by working with Detective Stark and her team, we’ll be able to put Rodney behind bars for a long time.”

“That seems appropriate,” I say. “He’s a liar, an abuser, and a cheat.”

“He’s also a murderer,” Mr. Preston adds.

I say nothing.

“Detective,” Charlotte says, “I’m sensing my client is tired. It’s been quite a day for her, given that this morning she was wrongly accused of murder and now she’s having tea in her living room with her accuser. Was there anything else you wanted to say to her?”

Detective Stark clears her throat. “Just that I, uh, regret that you were…detained.”

“That’s very kind of you, Detective,” I say. “I hope you’ve learned an important lesson.”

The detective shifts in her chair as if she’s seated on a sharp pin. “I’m sorry?” she says.

“Perhaps you jumped to some conclusions about me. You expected certain reactions that you consider normal, and when you didn’t see those reactions, you assumed I was guilty. You made an A-S-S out of U and Me.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she says.

“My gran always said that to live is to learn. Maybe next time you’ll avoid assumptions.”

“We’re all the same in different ways,” Juan Manuel adds.

“Huh,” she says. “I suppose.”

With that she stands, thanks us for our time, puts on her boots, and leaves.

Once the door clicks shut behind her, I slide the rusty dead bolt across it and breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I turn around and instead of emptiness, in my living room I see the faces of my three friends. They are all smiling, the kind of smiles that reach their eyes. For the first time in my life, I think I understand what a true friend is. It isn’t just someone who likes you; it’s someone willing to take action on your behalf.

“Well?” Mr. Preston says. “That detective just ate so much humble pie I think she might explode. How does it feel, Molly?”

I’m relieved beyond measure, but there’s more to it than that. “I…I’m not quite certain what I did to deserve this,” I say.

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” Charlotte says. “You’re innocent.”

“I don’t mean the crimes. I mean the kindness the three of you have shown me, for no good reason.”

“There’s always a reason for kindness,” Juan Manuel says.

“You’re right,” Mr. Preston says. “And you know who used to say that to me all the time?”

“No,” I say.

“Your good ol’ gran.”

“She never did tell me how you two knew each other,” I say.

“No, I expect she didn’t,” he replies. He takes a deep breath. “We were engaged, once upon a time.”

“You were what?” Charlotte says.

“That’s right, I had a life before you, my dear, a life you know very little about.”

“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte says. “I’m learning this only now?”

“So what happened?” Juan Manuel asks. He settles himself into the detective’s empty chair.

“Your grandmother, Flora, she was a wonderful lady, Molly. She was kind and sensitive. She was so different from other girls her age, and I was completely besotted. I proposed to her when we were both sixteen, and she said yes. But her parents wouldn’t allow it. They were well-to-do, you know. She was miles above my station, yet she never acted that way.”

I’m surprised by what I’m hearing, utterly shocked. But perhaps I should have known that Gran had her secrets. We all do, all of us.

“Oh, how your gran loved you, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“And you kept in touch with her over the years?” I ask.

“Yes. She was friendly with my wife, Mary. And from time to time, when Flora was in trouble, she’d call me. But the real trouble happened early.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Did it ever occur to you that you had a grandfather?”

“Yes,” I say. “Gran called him a ‘fly-by-night too.’ ”

“Did she?” he says. “He was many things, but never that. He’d never have flown away if he’d had a choice. He was forced. Anyhow, he was known to me. A friend, you could say. And you know how things happen when love is fresh and the blush is still on the rose.” Mr. Preston pauses to clear his throat. “As it turns out, Flora was with child. And when she could hide it no longer and her parents found out, that’s when they really turned their backs on her, for good. Poor girl. She wasn’t yet seventeen. She was just a child secretly running away with a child of her own. That’s why she became a domestic.”

It’s hard to imagine, Gran on her own like that, losing everything, everyone. I feel a heaviness on my shoulders, a sadness that I can’t quite name.

“She was bright, your gran. Could have won scholarships to any school,” Mr. Preston says. “But in those days, as an unwed woman with child, say goodbye to education.”

“Now, wait just a second, Dad,” Charlotte says. “Something doesn’t make sense. Who was this friend of yours? And where is he now?”

“The last I heard, he has a family of his own that he loves very much. But he’s never forgotten Flora. Never.”

Charlotte’s head cocks to the side. She eyes her father in a funny way that I don’t quite understand. “Dad?” she says. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“My dear girl,” he says. “I think I’ve said quite enough already.”

“Did you know my mother too?” I ask him.

“Yes. Now, she was a true fly-by-night, I’m afraid. Your gran had me try to talk some sense into her when she shacked up with the wrong fellow. I went to see her, tried to pry her from the flophouse she was living in, but she wouldn’t listen. Your poor gran, the pain of that…of losing a child the way she did…” Mr. Preston’s eyes fill with tears. Charlotte grabs his hand.

“Your gran was so good, that she was,” Mr. Preston says. “When my Mary was struggling near the end, your gran came to her rescue.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Mary was in extreme pain and so was I. I sat by her bedside holding her hand, saying, ‘Please don’t go. Not yet.’ Flora watched it all, then drew me aside. She said, ‘Don’t you see? She won’t leave you until you tell her it’s time.’ ”

That’s exactly what Gran would have said. I hear her words echo in my head. “Then what happened?” I ask.

“I told Mary I loved her and I did as Flora said. That’s all my wife needed to rest in peace.”

Mr. Preston can’t hold back his sobs any longer.

“You did the right thing, Dad,” Charlotte says. “Mom was suffering.”

“I always wanted to repay your gran, for showing me the way.”

“You have repaid her, Mr. Preston,” I say. “You’ve come to my aid, and Gran would be grateful.”

“Oh no, that’s not me,” Mr. Preston says. “That’s Charlotte.”

“No, Dad. You insisted on this. You convinced me we had to help this young maid you worked with. I think I’m starting to see why it was so important to you.”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” I say. “Gran thanks you. All of you. If she were here, she’d say it herself.”

With that, Mr. Preston stands, as does Charlotte. “Well, let’s not get too soggy then,” he says as he wipes his cheeks. “We best be going.”

“It’s been a long day,” Charlotte adds. “Juan Manuel, we brought your real overnight bag from your locker at the hotel. It’s by the front closet.”

“Thank you,” he says.

It strikes me suddenly, an urgent feeling. I don’t want them to leave. What if they walk out of my life and never come back? It’s not the first time that has happened. The thought puts me instantly on edge.

“Will I be seeing you again?” I ask. I can’t keep the anxiety out of my voice.

Mr. Preston chuckles. “Whether you like it or not, Molly.”

“You’ll be seeing us plenty,” Charlotte replies. “We have a case to prepare.”

“And besides the case, you’re stuck with us, Molly. You know, I’m old, and I’m a widower who’s become a bit set in my ways. It may seem odd, but this has been good for me. All of this. All of you. It feels like…”

“Family?” Juan Manuel suggests.

“Yes,” Mr. Preston says. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“You know,” Juan Manuel says, “in my family, the rule is that on Sundays, we all have dinner together. That’s the thing I miss the most from back home.”

“That’s easily remedied,” I say. “Charlotte, Mr. Preston, would you be so kind as to join us for dinner this Sunday?”

“I’ll cook!” Juan Manuel says. “You’ve probably never had real Mexican food, the kind my mother makes. I’ll make the Tour of Mexico. Oh, you’ll love it.”

Mr. Preston looks to Charlotte. She nods.

“We’ll bring dessert,” Mr. Preston says.

“And a bottle of champagne to celebrate,” Charlotte adds.

At the doorway, I stand and wait as Charlotte and Mr. Preston put on their shoes. I’m not sure of the proper etiquette for saying goodbye to two people who have just saved you from life in prison.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mr. Preston says. “Give your ol’ friend a hug.”

I do as I’m told and am surprised by the sensation—I feel like Goldilocks hugging Papa Bear.

I hug Charlotte as well, and it’s pleasant but entirely different, like caressing the wing of a butterfly.

They leave arm in arm, and I close the door behind them. Juan Manuel stands in the entryway, shifting from foot to foot.

“Are you sure, Molly, that you’re okay with me staying here tonight?”

“Yes,” I say. “Just for tonight.” The words that follow cascade out of my mouth. “You’ll take my room, and I’ll take Gran’s room. I’ll change the sheets right now. I always bleach and iron my sheets and keep two pairs at the ready, and you can rest assured that the bathroom is sanitary and disinfected on a regular basis. And if you do require any extra amenities, such as a toothbrush or soap, I’m most certain that I—”

“Molly, it’s good. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

My verbal rush comes to a halt. “I’m not terribly good at this. I know how to treat guests at the hotel, but not in my own home.”

“You don’t have to treat me in any special way. I’ll just try to be clean and quiet, and to help out where I can. You like breakfast?”

“Yes, I like breakfast.”

“Good,” he says. “Me too.”

I try to change the sheets in my room by myself, but Juan Manuel will have none of it. We peel back Gran’s lone-star quilt and remove the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones. We do it together as he tells me stories of his three-year-old nephew back home, Teodoro, who always jumped on the bed when he was trying to make it. When he tells his stories, they come to life in my mind. I can see that little boy jumping and playing. It’s like he’s right there with us.

When we are done, Juan Manuel goes quiet. “Okay. I’ll get ready for bed now, Molly.”

“Do you need anything else? Perhaps a cup of Ovaltine, or some toiletries for the bath?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Very well,” I say as I leave the room. “Good night.”

“Good night, Miss Molly,” he replies, and then quietly closes my bedroom door.

I pad down the hallway to the washroom. I change into my pajamas. I brush my teeth slowly. I sing “Happy Birthday” three times to make sure that I’ve brushed every last molar properly.

I wash my face, use the toilet, scrub my hands. I take the Windex from under the sink and do a quick polish of the mirror. There I am, shining back at myself, spotless. Clean.

There’s no point dallying any longer.

It’s time.

I walk down the hallway and stand in front of Gran’s door. I remember the last time I closed this door, after the coroner and his aides wheeled out Gran’s body, after I cleaned the room from top to bottom, after I washed her sheets and remade the bed, after I fluffed her pillows and dusted every last one of her trinkets, after I took her house sweater off the hook behind the door, the last remaining stitch of her clothing I had not washed and held it to my face to breathe in the vestiges of her before putting even that into the hamper. The sharp click of this door closing was as final as death itself.

I reach out and put my hand on the doorknob. I turn it. I open it. The room is exactly as I left it. Gran’s Royal Doulton figurines dance statically in petticoats on her bureau. The ruffles on her baby-blue bed skirts remain pristine. Her pillows are plump and wrinkle-free.

“Oh Gran,” I say. I feel it, a tidal wave of grief, a wave so strong that it carries me to her bed. I lie down on it, feeling suddenly like I’m on a life raft lost at sea. I hug one of her pillows, put it to my face, but I’ve washed it too well. There’s no scent of her left. She is gone.

On the last day of her life, I sat with her. She was lying where I am now. I’d carried the chair by the front door—the one with her serenity pillow on it—and set it up beside her. A week earlier, I’d moved the television, setting it up on her chest of drawers so she could watch nature shows and National Geographic while I was at work. I didn’t want to leave her alone, not even for a few hours. I knew she was in great pain, though she took great pains to deny it.

“Dear girl, they need you at work. You’re an important part of the hive. I’m fine here. I’ve got my tea, and my pills. And my Columbo.”

As the days passed, her color changed. She stopped humming songs to herself. Even in the morning, she was quieter, each thought belabored, each trip to the bathroom an epic journey.

I tried desperately to make her see reason. “Gran, we need to call an ambulance. We need to get you to a hospital.”

She’d shake her head slowly, her gray, feathery tufts trembling on the pillow. “No need. I am content. I have my pills for the pain. I’m where I want to be. Home, sweet home.”

“But maybe they can do something. Maybe the doctors can—”

“Shhhh,” she said whenever I refused to listen. “We made a promise, you and I. And what did we agree about promises?”

“Promises are meant to be kept.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s my girl.”

On the last day, her pain was worse than ever. I tried yet again to convince her to go to the hospital, to no avail.

“Columbo is coming on,” she said.

I turned on the television, and we watched the episode, or rather I watched and she closed her eyes, her hands gripping the bedsheets.

“I’m listening,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Be my eyes. Tell me what I need to see.”

I watched the screen and narrated the action. Columbo was interviewing a trophy wife who didn’t seem terribly distraught to learn that her millionaire husband was probably not the main suspect in a murder case. I described the restaurant they were in, the green tablecloth, the way her head moved, the way she fidgeted at the table. I told Gran when I knew Columbo was onto her, that look that showed he knew the truth before anyone else.

“Yes,” she said. “Very good. You’re learning expressions.”

Halfway through the episode, Gran became agitated. The pain was so bad that she was wincing and tears were running down her face.

“Gran? How can I help? What can I do?”

I could hear her labored breath. There was a catch to each intake, like water gurgling in a drain.

“Molly,” she said. “It’s time.”

Columbo continued his investigations in the background. He was onto the wife. The pieces were coming together. I turned the volume down.

“No, Gran. No, I can’t.”

“Yes,” she said. “You promised.”

I protested. I tried to reason. I begged her to please, please, please let me call the hospital.

She waited for my storm to pass. And when it did, she said it again.

“Make me a cup of tea. It’s time.”

I was so grateful to have instruction that I leaped to my feet. I rushed to the kitchen and had her tea ready, in her favorite cup—the one with the pretty cottage scene—in record time.

I took it back to her and set it on the bedside table. I put a pillow underneath her so she was more upright, but no matter how gently I touched her, she moaned pitifully, like an animal in a trap.

“My pills,” she said. “Whatever’s left of them.”

“It won’t work, Gran,” I said. “There aren’t enough. Next week we’ll have more.” I begged her yet again. I pleaded.

“Promises…”

She no longer had enough breath to complete the phrase.

In the end, I relented. I opened the bottle and put it on the edge of her saucer. I brought the teacup to her hands.

“Put them in,” she said.

“Gran—”

“Please.”

I emptied the rest of the painkillers into her tea—four pills, that’s all. Not enough. It would be five days before we could fill another prescription, five days of agony.

I looked at Gran through my tears. She blinked and looked at the spoon on the saucer.

I took it and stirred and stirred, until a minute later she blinked again. I stopped stirring.

With great effort, she leaned forward, enough that I could put the cup to her gray lips. Even as I fed her the liquid, I begged. “Don’t drink. Don’t…”

But she did. She drank the whole thing.

“Delightful,” she whispered when she was done. Then she eased herself back on her pillows. She put her hands to her chest. Her lips moved. She was speaking. I had to come right up to her lips to hear.

“I love you, my dear girl,” she said. “You know what to do.”

“Gran,” I said. “I can’t!”

But I could see it. I could see her body stiffen, the pain seizing her once more. Her breathing became even more shallow and the rattle was louder, like a drum.

We’d discussed it. I’d promised. She was always so rational, so logical, and I could not deny her this last wish. I knew it was what she wanted. She did not deserve to suffer.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I took her serenity pillow from behind me on the chair. I put the pillow over Gran’s face and held it there.

I couldn’t look at the pillow. I concentrated instead on her hands, a worker’s hands, a maid’s hands, hands so much like mine—clean, nails trimmed short, callused knuckles, the skin thin and papery, the blue rivers beneath them receding, their flow ebbing. Once, they extended out, her fingers grasping, reaching, but it was too late. We’d decided. Before they could reach anything, they relaxed. They let go.

It didn’t take long. When all was silent, I moved the pillow away. I hugged it to my chest with all my strength.

There she was, my gran. She looked for all the world as though she was fast asleep, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, her face serene. At rest.

Now, as I lie awake in her bed over nine months later, with Juan Manuel just down the hall, I think of everything that has come to pass, of these past few days that have turned my life upside down.

“Gran, I miss you so much. And I can’t believe I’ll never see you again.”

Count your blessings.

“Yes, Gran, I will,” I said out loud. “It’s so much better than counting sheep.”