The Housemaid's Secret

Men are all the same—in the beginning, they trip over themselves to give you anything you want, but then eventually, they take you for granted.

It’s funny. When it’s right, you just know it’s right.

“Yeah, and we just got done reviewing all the tapes. And it’s crazy—according to those tapes, your husband hasn’t been in that apartment in months. Like, the entire time Miss Calloway was working there. So I don’t know how she was having an affair with him in the apartment if he was never even there. You know?”

“The building manager for the penthouse has been out of town the last two days. Over in Europe, and we couldn’t get a hold of him. Anyway, I finally talked to him this afternoon, and he told me something really interesting.”

“Oh?”

“He said that there’s a security camera at the back door of the building.”

I think my heart stops for a good five seconds. “Excuse me?”

“Somehow we missed it,” he says. “He says he puts it out of sight because the residents don’t like to feel like they’re getting spied on. And here’s the funny part—your husband was the one who provided the security equipment from his company about a year ago, because he was worried about that back entrance.”

“He changed his will. Left everything to charity.”

He leans in to kiss me, and I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for nearly two years.

“Who you are is not something you did when you were a teenager.” His black eyes look intently into mine. “It is clear who you are. If he could not tell from spending time with you, then he is right—he does not deserve to be with you.”

I’ve never hit a woman in my life.” He looks slightly ill. It makes me wonder if he has the guts to go through with this plan. He’s going to have to do a lot worse than punch me in the face before this is over. “I’m not going to hit you, Wendy.”

“You have to.”

When I look at myself in the mirror, I almost scream.

My face looks like a nightmare of blossoming purple bruises, mixed with other bruises that are fading to yellow. It is painful to gaze upon. Russell watches me putting the final touches on my cheekbone, and he seems impressed.

“You’re a magician, Wendy,” he tells me. “It looks real.”

I spent hours practicing. I watched several YouTube videos, and now I am one of the world’s experts on creating realistic-looking bruises. It truly does look like somebody gave me a substantial beating.

I hope Millie appreciates the work that went into this masterpiece.

But this Millie person doesn’t know who my husband is. Douglas has meticulously swept the internet of photographs of himself. If Millie saw a man slapping me around, she would be motivated to help me. If what he does is bad enough, I won’t even be able to stop her.

Slowly, a plan is forming in my head.