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Several kilometers away, a young woman named Luía Oliveira was waking up at 5:30 in the morning.
She was twenty-five years old.
She lived with her parents in a modest neighborhood where every room had a purpose and every coin was carefully counted.
Her father, Joaquim, had worked as a bricklayer for most of his life.
Her mother, Marta, sold homemade sweets near a bus station.
Luía had been cleaning houses since she was eighteen.
But cleaning wasn’t her dream.
Her dream was psychology.
More specifically, child psychology.
Every night after work, she attended classes.
Sometimes she arrived exhausted.
Sometimes she fell asleep over her books.
Sometimes she studied while waiting for buses.
But she refused to quit.
She believed children didn’t become difficult for no reason.
There was always something underneath.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Grief.
Abandonment.
Anger.
Something.
That morning, while she was tying her worn shoes, her phone rang.
It was the agency.
“Luía?”
“Yes?”
“We have an emergency job.”
“Where?”
“Morumbi.”
She paused.
“Morumbi?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of work?”
“Housekeeping.”
“How much?”
“Double your usual rate.”
Luía looked toward the kitchen.
Her mother was counting money at the table.
Double pay could cover almost two weeks of household expenses.
“When do I start?”
“Today.”
“Send me the address.”
“You understand this is a difficult client?”
Luía smiled.
“I’ve cleaned houses with three dogs, five children, and a grandmother who threw slippers at me.”
“This is different.”
“How different?”
The woman on the other end was silent.
“Thirty-seven employees have already left.”
Luía stopped smiling.
“Thirty-seven?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Are the children violent?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Nobody stays.”
Luía looked at the clock.
“I’ll go.”
Two hours later, she stood outside the enormous wrought-iron gates of the Mendoza Albuquerque mansion.
She looked almost absurdly ordinary standing there.
White blouse.
Worn jeans.
Old sneakers.
A faded backpack.
Curly hair pulled into a loose bun.
No expensive handbag.
No makeup.
No polished appearance.
Just a young woman carrying herself with surprising calm.
The gate opened.
She walked inside.
From an upstairs window, six faces appeared.
Mariana stood in front.
Beatriz and Bianca were beside her.
Laura stood farther back.
Julia watched nervously.
And little Isabela peeked from behind the curtain.
“Another victim,” Mariana whispered.
Bianca giggled.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes,” Beatriz said.
“Ten,” Bianca replied.
Mariana shook her head.
“Don’t underestimate her.”
Downstairs, Luía entered the house.
Augusto greeted her first.
“Ms. Oliveira?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Augusto.”
She shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“I should warn you.”
“About the girls?”
He nodded.
Luía looked around.
The mansion was enormous.
But despite the expensive furniture and spotless floors, it didn’t feel luxurious.
It felt sad.
There were photographs everywhere.
Most of them showed the same woman.
Claris.
Smiling.
Holding babies.
Standing beside Ricardo.
Laughing with the girls.
Luía stopped in front of one photograph.
All six daughters were crowded around their mother.
Claris was laughing.
The girls looked happy.
Luía stared at the picture for several seconds.
Then she noticed something.
There was another photograph beneath it.
Claris holding little Isabela.
The child was barely one year old.
Luía swallowed.
“She was beautiful.”
Augusto looked at the picture.
“She was.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“A little over a year.”
Luía nodded.
Then she heard footsteps.
Ricardo appeared.
He looked nothing like the wealthy businessmen she had seen on television.
He was exhausted.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His eyes were dark from lack of sleep.
He looked like a man who hadn’t rested properly in months.
He extended his hand.
“Ricardo Mendoza.”
“Luía Oliveira.”
He nodded.
“Augusto told you this is housekeeping.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“I understand.”
“Because we’ve had problems.”
“I’ve heard.”
His expression tightened.
“I don’t expect you to manage the children.”
Luía looked toward the staircase.
Six small faces disappeared instantly.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Something about her answer made Ricardo pause.
Most people were intimidated by him.
She wasn’t.
He gestured toward the kitchen.
“The housekeeper before you left yesterday.”
“Why?”
“She said she couldn’t work here.”
Luía nodded.
“Where should I start?”
Ricardo pointed down the hallway.
“The kitchen.”
“All right.”
She picked up her backpack.
And walked away.
Ricardo watched her go.
Neither of them noticed Mariana watching from behind the staircase.
The twelve-year-old whispered to her sisters:
“She’s different.”
Bianca frowned.
“How?”
Mariana’s eyes narrowed.
“She isn’t scared.”
