CHAPTER TWO
1031 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Four months later.
Cara Garcia hurried along the road. She’d gotten off a stop too early by mistake, as the last time when she’d come for her interview, she’d traveled from the agency office. That was in Fairfield, one of the prettiest towns Cara had ever seen. She loved the characterful New England architecture, the steep roofs and massive chimneys a reflection of the area’s colonial history. She appreciated the colorful store and restaurant frontages, and how neat and clean it was. And such beautiful trees, adorned in their rich, fall colors.
This time, she’d traveled from her apartment, which was an hour’s journey away and in a very different area. Definitely, the last ten minutes were the most pleasant part of the trip, as the walk took her along a road bordering the sea. Glancing at the golden beach and azure waves, with the breeze cool on her face, Cara felt hopeful that her new job would start out well.
Fairfield was a prestigious area to work, and her new employers were wealthy people. This was her chance to better herself in a higher-paying job, even though the traveling time was long and the job itself might well be demanding.
The husband, Mr. Logan, had been a friendly person. She’d liked him immediately during the quick interview last week. He’d seemed kind and fair. But she had yet to meet his wife, and this would be her biggest challenge. If his wife got along with her, all would be well during her two-week trial. If the wife didn’t like her, then the trial would not be successful and she might not work in this big, beautiful house for long.
With a pang of nerves, Cara hoped that she would get along with her. She’d heard scary stories from her friends about what could happen if a new maid clashed with the wife. One person she knew had been fired on the very first day after making a minor mistake.
She turned inland, heading down the curving road, checking her watch again. She was supposed to start at seven-thirty and already it was twenty past. She broke into a jog, checking the map on her phone as she reached the corner ahead.
Here was the house, third from the corner, opposite a park.
Mr. Logan had given his instructions with a smile. “Knock on the door and introduce yourself to my wife. She’ll show you what to do and give you a key to let yourself in next time.”
Breathless, Cara arrived on the doorstep, taking a moment to straighten her hair and tug her blouse straight. First impressions counted. She really wanted Mrs. Logan to like her. This was a desperately important moment.
She lifted the brass knocker, tapped three times, and waited, listening.
There was no answer from inside and Cara felt her stomach twist. Already, things weren’t going as planned. Why?
Checking her watch, she saw she was five minutes early. Perhaps Mrs. Logan wasn’t yet back from the gym or shopping. Although she assumed it would be locked, she tried the door. To her surprise it swung smoothly open. She was confronted again by the large, majestic house, smelling faintly of fresh paint, its wooden floors gleaming, and its furniture brand new and sparkling clean.
“Good morning?” she called.
Goose bumps prickled on her arms. There was a weird feel about this place. The silence felt oppressive. Why had that door been open when there wasn’t a soul around? Surely if you were upstairs in the bedroom or the bathroom, you would lock the front door?
Had Mrs. Logan stepped out quickly? Maybe she’d gone next door, or into the garden? She waited another minute but the silence continued and she had no idea what to do.
Cara had been inside houses before after robberies had taken place and crimes had occurred. This house gave her that same prickling sensation, even though nothing looked out of place.
Or was there?
Yes, there was. She could see it now.
Her gaze was drawn to one of the pictures on the wall by the foot of the stairs. It was knocked askew as if someone had brushed past it while on the way down. Or perhaps on the way up, Cara thought uneasily.
She should check nothing was wrong.
“Mrs. Logan?” she called loudly.
Nobody could have gone past that picture without straightening it. Nobody! Why was it like that?
Her heart now pounding with worry, Cara stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She put her purse down under the hall table and then headed to the stairs. Reaching the picture—a framed line drawing of a tree—she straightened it carefully.
She hadn’t been up the stairs before. As she walked up, she felt like a trespasser, someone who was prying into private space without permission. At the top, she hesitated again and looked around. There were closed doors to the left and right, but she guessed from her previous experience in a similar home that the master bedroom would be the one straight ahead, at the end of the corridor. That door was ajar.
Something didn’t smell right up here. The fresh aromas she had picked up downstairs were overshadowed by something else, a subtle yet unpleasant tinge in the air.
“Good morning,” she called in the most cheerful tone she could summon up, as she approached the door. By now, all her instincts were screaming at her, but still she was hoping that by some miracle it might all be okay, that Mrs. Logan had been in the bathroom and would greet her warmly.
No response. Just more of the echoing silence. And as she reached the door, the smell was stronger—a thick, metallic odor.
Feeling desperately worried now, Cara gathered her courage and pushed the door wide.
And, as the b****y scene inside imprinted itself on her appalled gaze, she screamed at the top of her voice, yelling out again and again in terror and shock.
“No! It can’t be! Mr. Logan! Your wife! Your wife is dead!”
- Writer
