The maid’s fingers dug into my arm like claws. Her eyes were wild, darting between me and the massive white colonial behind her. December wind whipped her black uniform against her legs as she pulled me away from the front door.
“Mrs. Callaway!”
Her voice cracked.
“Don’t go in. Leave now. Immediately.”
I stared at her, my hand still clutching the cashmere scarf I’d spent an hour wrapping in silver paper. The bow was perfect. I’d made it perfect for Desmond—my son, my only child—who hadn’t spoken to me in 12 months until 3 days ago when he’d finally called.
Hi viewers, kindly tell us where you’re watching from and what time it is.
What? The word came out confused, distant. I don’t understand. My son invited me for Christmas dinner. I’m supposed to—
“Please.”
She glanced back at the house again. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see golden lights spilling across marble floors. A Christmas tree stood in the entrance hall, at least 15 feet tall, covered in white lights and silver ornaments.
“I could lose my job for this, but I can’t let you walk in there. Get in your car. Drive away. Don’t come back.”
My knees felt weak. I was Beatrice Callaway, 73 years old, and I’d driven 2 hours from my apartment in Bridgeport to this mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. For a year, Desmond hadn’t answered my calls, hadn’t responded to my letters, hadn’t acknowledged my birthday or Thanksgiving, or the 50 voicemails I’d left begging him to tell me what I’d done wrong. Then last Tuesday, his voice on my phone—flat, cold. Come for Christmas dinner, mother. Saturday at 6:00.
This woman was telling me to leave.
“Is Desmond okay?”
My voice shook.
“Is he hurt? Is something wrong with—”
“He’s fine.”
Her accent was thick—Hispanic, maybe. Her name tag read ANISE.
“But you’re not safe here. Trust me, I have a mother too. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t warn you.”
Behind her, a shadow moved across the hallway window. Tall. Male. My breath caught.
“Go.”
Anise’s eyes filled with tears.
“Por favor. Just go.”
I stumbled backward. My heel caught on the edge of the driveway, and I nearly fell, catching myself against the hood of my 10-year-old Camry. The car looked tiny—shabby—next to the circular fountain in the center of Desmond’s driveway. Next to this house that probably cost more than I’d earned in my entire nursing career.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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