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Chapter no 13

The Maid (Molly the Maid, 1)

โ€ŒThe car ride is silent. This time, Iโ€™m seated in the back of the police cruiser instead of up front. I donโ€™t like it back here. The vinylโ€Œ

upholstery squeaks under me every time I make the slightest move. A bullet-proof glass barrier separates Detective Stark from me. It is smeared with grubby fingerprints and dark-brown blood stains.

Imagine youโ€™re in a limousine, sitting in the back seat, being driven to the opera.

Gran reminds me that entrapment is only a state of mind, that thereโ€™s always a way out. I join my hands in my lap and breathe deeply. I will admire the view out the window. Yes. I will concentrate on that.

We are at the station in what feels like seconds. Once inside, Detective Stark leads me to the same white room in which I was questioned before. On our way there, I feel more eyes upon meโ€”uniformed officers who gawk as I pass, some of them offering a nod, not to me, but to Detective Stark. I hold my head high.

โ€œHave a seat,โ€ the detective says. I sit down in the same seat where I sat before, and Detective Stark sits across from me. She closes the door. She doesnโ€™t offer me coffee or even water this time, which is a shame. I could

use some water, though I know if I ask for some it will arrive in a dastardly Styrofoam cup.

Shoulders back, chin up, breathe.

Detective Stark has not said a word. Sheโ€™s sitting there in front of me, watching me. The camera in the corner blinks its red eye at me.

Iโ€™m the first to break the silence. โ€œHow may I be of service to you, Detective Stark?โ€ I ask.

โ€œHow can you be of service to me? Well, Molly the Maid. You can start by telling the truth.โ€

โ€œMy gran used to say that the truth is subjective. But Iโ€™ve never quite believed that. I believe the truth is absolute,โ€ I say.

โ€œThen thereโ€™s something we agree on,โ€ Detective Stark replies. She leans forward and puts her elbows on the scuffed white table between us. I wish she wouldnโ€™t. I disapprove of elbows on the table. But I donโ€™t say anything.

She is close enough that I can see tiny gold flecks in the irises of her blue eyes. โ€œSince weโ€™re talking about truth,โ€ she says, โ€œIโ€™d like to share with you the results of Mr. Blackโ€™s toxicology report. No autopsy report yet, but weโ€™ll have that soon enough. Mr. Black had drugs in his system, the same drug that was on his bedside table and strewn on the floor of his bedroom.โ€

โ€œGiselleโ€™s medicine,โ€ I say.

โ€œMedicine? Benzodiazepine, laced with some other street drugs.โ€

It takes me a moment to change the picture in my head from Giselle at the drugstore counter to her acquiring something illicit in a sordid back alley. Something isnโ€™t right. It doesnโ€™t make sense.

โ€œAnyhow,โ€ Detective Stark says, โ€œIt wasnโ€™t the pills that killed him. He had a lot in his system, but not enough to kill him.โ€

โ€œWhat do you believe killed him then?โ€ I ask.

โ€œWe donโ€™t know yet. But I assure you, weโ€™ll get to the bottom of it,โ€ she says. โ€œThe full autopsy report will determine if the petechial hemorrhaging was due to a cardiac arrest or if something more sinister happened.โ€

It comes back to me in a flash. The room starts to spin. I see Mr. Black, his skin gray and taut, the little pinprick bruises around his eyes, his body

stiff and lifeless. After I made the call to the front desk, I looked up. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of the bed.

Suddenly, I feel clammy and cold, like Iโ€™m about to faint.

Detective Stark purses her lips, bides her time. Eventually, she says, โ€œIf you know something, nowโ€™s your chance to be on the side of good. You do understand that Mr. Black was a very important man? A VIP?โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ I say.

โ€œExcuse me?โ€ Detective Stark replies.

โ€œI donโ€™t believe that some people are more important than other people. Weโ€™re all very important in our own way, Detective. For instance, Iโ€™m sitting here with youโ€”a lowly hotel maidโ€”and yet clearly there is something very important about me. Otherwise, you wouldnโ€™t have brought me here today.โ€

Detective Stark is listening carefully. She zeroes in on my every word. โ€œLet me ask you something,โ€ she says. โ€œDoes it ever make you angry?

Being a maid, I mean? Cleaning up after rich people? Taking care of their messes?โ€

Iโ€™m impressed by this line of questioning. This is not what I was expecting at all when I was escorted here.

โ€œYes,โ€ I answer truthfully. โ€œI do sometimes feel angry. Especially when guests are careless. When they forget that their actions have an impact on others, when Iโ€™m treated like I donโ€™t matter.โ€

Detective Stark says nothing. Her elbows remain on the table, which continues to grate on my nerves even though itโ€™s only officially a breach of etiquette when thereโ€™s a meal being served.

โ€œNow let me askย youย a question,โ€ I say. โ€œDoes it ever botherย you?โ€ โ€œDoes what ever bother me?โ€

โ€œCleaning up after rich people. Taking care of their messes,โ€ I say.

The detective pulls back as though Iโ€™ve sprouted the head of Hydra and one hundred serpents are hissing in her face. What pleases me, though, is that her elbows are no longer on the table.

โ€œIs that how you see this? That my job as a detective is to clean up after a man has died?โ€

it.โ€

โ€œWhat Iโ€™m saying is that weโ€™re not so different, when it comes down to

โ€œIs that so?โ€

โ€œYou want this mess cleaned up, and so do I. We both seek a tidy closure

to this unfortunate situation. A return to normalcy.โ€

โ€œWhat Iโ€™m seeking is the truth, Molly. About how Mr. Black died. And right now, I also want to know the truth about you. Weโ€™ve uncovered some interesting information in the last forty-eight hours. When we spoke the other day, you said you didnโ€™t know Giselle Black particularly well. But as it turns out, thatโ€™s not true.โ€

I wonโ€™t give her the satisfaction of flinching. Giselle is my friend. Iโ€™ve never had a friend like her before, and Iโ€™m acutely aware of how easy it would be to lose her. I consider how to protect her and tell the truth at the same time.

โ€œGiselle has confided in me in the past. That doesnโ€™t mean I know her as well as Iโ€™d like. Mr. Black definitely had a temper. It was hard not to notice Giselleโ€™s bruises. She confessed he was the cause of them.โ€

โ€œYou do realize weโ€™ve been talking to other employees at the hotel, right?โ€

โ€œI would have expected as much, yes. Iโ€™m sure youโ€™ll find them very helpful to your investigation,โ€ I say.

โ€œTheyโ€™ve told us a lot. Not only about Giselle and Mr. Black. But about you.โ€

I feel my stomach twist. Surely whoever spoke to Detective Stark would have been fair in their commentary, even if Iโ€™m not their cup of tea? And if the detective consulted Mr. Snow, Mr. Preston, or Rodney, she would have received a glowing report on my employee conduct and general reliability.

A thought occurs to me. Cheryl. She was โ€œsickโ€ yesterdayโ€”though probably not so sick that she couldnโ€™t make her way down to this very station.

As if reading my mind, the detective says, โ€œMolly, weโ€™ve been talking to Cheryl, your supervisor.โ€

โ€œI do hope she was helpful,โ€ I reply, though I highly doubt she was.

โ€œWe asked Cheryl if she ever cleaned the Blacksโ€™ suite when they stayed at the hotel. She said that for a while she did clean their suite alongside you. It was her way of maintaining quality control and keeping her maids sharp.โ€ The acid builds in my stomach. โ€œIt was her way of siphoning off tips that were meant for those who do the work rather than for those who stand

around watching,โ€ I say.

The detective ignores my words entirely. โ€œCheryl said that she observed a friendly relationship between you and Giselle, a kind of special kinship that was unusual between a guest and a maid, especially for you, since you donโ€™t really have friends, so Iโ€™m told.โ€

I knew Cheryl was watching me, but I never realized just how much. I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I respond. โ€œGiselle was grateful for my services,โ€ I say. โ€œThat was the basis for our relationship.โ€

โ€œTell me, did you ever receive tips from Giselle? Or large sums of money?โ€ she asks.

โ€œShe and Mr. Black tipped me well,โ€ I answer. I wonโ€™t go into further details about the countless times Giselle placed brand-new $100 bills into the palm of my hand to thank me for keeping the suite clean. And I wonโ€™t mention her visit to my home nor the charitable monetary gift she left me last night. Itโ€™s no oneโ€™s business except mine.

โ€œDid Giselle ever give you anything besides money?โ€

Kindness. Friendship. Help. Trust. โ€œNothing out of the ordinary,โ€ I say. โ€œNothing at all?โ€

Detective Stark digs in her pocket and takes out a small key. She opens a drawer in the table between us. She takes out the timer, Giselleโ€™s timer, her golden gift to me. The detective places it on the table.

I feel a surge of heat rise to my face. โ€œCheryl let you into my locker. Thatโ€™sย myย locker, itโ€™s my personal space. Thatโ€™s not right, invading someoneโ€™s privacy, touching their things without permission.โ€

โ€œThose lockers are hotel property, Molly. Please remember youโ€™re just an employee, not the owner of the hotel. Now, tell me: are you ready to confess the truth about you and Giselle?โ€

The truth about Giselle and me is something I barely understand. Itโ€™s as strange as a baby rhino being adopted by a tortoise. How am I supposed to explain such a thing? โ€œI donโ€™t know what to tell you,โ€ I say.

โ€œThen let me tellย youย something,โ€ Detective Stark replies as her elbows reclaim the table. โ€œYouโ€™re rapidly becoming a person of interest to us. Do you understand what that means?โ€

Iโ€™m detecting an air of condescension. Iโ€™ve encountered this beforeโ€” people who assume that Iโ€™m a complete idiot just because I donโ€™t grasp things that come easily to them.

โ€œYouโ€™re becoming a VIP, Molly,โ€ Detective Stark adds. โ€œAnd not the good kind. Youโ€™ve proven that youโ€™re capable of leaving out important details, of bending the truth to suit you. Iโ€™m going to ask you one more time: are you in contact with Giselle Black?โ€

I deliberate once more and find Iโ€™m able to answer this with 100 percent honesty. โ€œI am not currently in contact with Giselle, though as I understand it, she remains a guest at the hotel.โ€

โ€œLetโ€™s hope for your sake thatโ€™s the truth. And letโ€™s hope the autopsy report shows a natural cause of death. Until then, youโ€™re not to leave the country or attempt to hide from us in any way. Youโ€™re not under arrest.โ€

โ€œI most certainly hope not. Iโ€™ve done nothing wrong!โ€ โ€œDo you have a valid passport?โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

She cocks her head to one side. โ€œIf youโ€™re lying, Iโ€™ll find out. I can look you up, you know.โ€

โ€œAnd when you do,โ€ I say, โ€œyouโ€™ll find that I do not have a passport because Iโ€™ve never left the country in my life. Youโ€™ll also find Iโ€™m a model citizen and that I have a completely clean record.โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t go anywhere, you understand?โ€

Itโ€™s precisely this kind of language that always trips me up. โ€œMay I go to my home? May I go to the store? To the restroom? And what about work?โ€

She sighs. โ€œYes, of course you can go home and to all the places youโ€™d usually go. And yes, you can go to work. What Iโ€™m saying is weโ€™ll be watching you.โ€

Here we go again. โ€œWatching me do what?โ€ I ask.

Her eyes drill into mine. โ€œWhatever it is youโ€™re hiding, whoever youโ€™re trying to protect, weโ€™ll find out. One thing Iโ€™ve learned in my business is that you can hide dirt for a while, but at some point, it all comes to the surface. Do you understand?โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re asking me if I understand dirt?โ€

Smudges on doorknobs. Shoe prints on floors. Dust rings on tabletops.

Mr. Black dead in his bed.

โ€œYes, Detective. I understand dirt better than most.โ€

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