My phone rang while I was loading the groceries into the trunk. I almost didn’t answer. I didn’t recognize the number, and I thought it might be Darren’s lawyer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Carly? The house cleaner?” It was an older woman’s voice. Crisp and careful. The kind of
voice that sounded like it had never once said “um.”
“Yes. Yes, this is Carly.”
“My name is Margaret Whitaker. I saw your card at the library. I have a house on Linden Street.
Four bedrooms, three baths. I need someone once a week. Are you available on Thursdays?”
I was available every day of the week. I was available at three in the morning if she wanted. But I
tried to sound like a professional.
“Let me check,” I said. I stood there in the rain holding my phone and counted to five. “Yes. I have Thursdays open.”
“Good. Could you come by tomorrow at ten? So we can meet. And so you can see the house.”
“Of course.”
“You’re crying,” she said.
I froze. I hadn’t made a sound. At least, I didn’t think I had.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s all right. It’s raining, too. I can hear it.” There was a short pause. “Ten o’clock tomorrow. 418
