Freida McFadden - The Housemaid: An absolutely addictive psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

If I leave this house, it will be in handcuffs.

I should have run for it while I had the chance. Now my shot is gone. Now that the police officers are in the house and theyve discovered whats upstairs, theres no turning back.

They are about five seconds away from reading me my rights. Im not sure why they havent done it yet. Maybe theyre hoping to trick me into telling them something I shouldnt.

Good luck with that.

The cop with the black hair threaded with gray is sitting on the sofa next to me. He shifts his stocky frame on the burnt-caramel Italian leather. I wonder what sort of sofa he has at home. It sure doesnt cost five figures like this one did. Its probably some tacky color like orange, covered in pet fur, and with more than one rip in the seams. I wonder if hes thinking about his sofa at home and wishing he had one like this.

Or more likely, hes thinking about the dead body in the attic upstairs.

So lets go through this one more time, the cop says in his New York drawl. He told me his name earlier, but it flew out of my head. Police officers should wear bright red nametags. How else are you possibly supposed to remember their names in a high-stress situation? Hes a detective, I think. When did you find the body?

I pause, wondering if this would be the right time to demand a lawyer. Arent they supposed to offer me one? I am rusty on this protocol.

About an hour ago, I answer.

Why did you go up there in the first place?

I press my lips together. I told you. I heard a sound.

And?

The officer leans forward, his eyes wide. He has a rough stubble on his chin, like he mightve skipped shaving this morning. His tongue protrudes slightly from between his lips. Im not stupidI know exactly what he wants me to say.

I did it. Im guilty. Take me away.

Instead, I lean back against the sofa. Thats it. Thats everything I know.

Disappointment washes over the detectives face. He works his jaw as he thinks over the evidence that has been found so far in this house. Hes wondering if hes got enough to snap those cuffs on my wrists yet. He isnt sure. If he were sure, he would have done it already.

Hey, Connors!

Its the voice of another officer. We break eye contact and I look up at the top of the staircase. The other, much younger cop is standing there, his long fingers clutching the top of the banister. His unlined face is pale.

Connors, the younger officer says. You gotta come up herenow. You gotta see whats up here. Even from the bottom of the stairs, I can see his Adams apple bobbing. You wont believe it.

Tell me about yourself, Millie.

Nina Winchester leans forward on her caramel-colored leather sofa, her legs crossed to reveal just the slightest hint of her knees peeking out under her silky white skirt. I dont know much about labels, but its obvious everything Nina Winchester is wearing is painfully expensive. Her cream blouse makes me long to reach out to feel the material, even though a move like that would mean Id have no chance of getting hired.

To be fair, I have no chance of getting hired anyway.

Well I begin, choosing my words carefully. Even after all the rejections, I still try. I grew up in Brooklyn. Ive had a lot of jobs doing housework for people, as you can see from my resume. My carefully doctored resume. And I love children. And also I glance around the room, looking for a doggy chew toy or a cat litter box. I love pets as well?

The online ad for the housekeeper job didnt mention pets. But better to be safe. Who doesnt appreciate an animal lover?

Brooklyn! Mrs. Winchester beams at me. I grew up in Brooklyn, too. Were practically neighbors!

We are! I confirm, even though nothing could be further from the truth. There are plenty of coveted neighborhoods in Brooklyn where youll fork over an arm and a leg for a tiny townhouse. Thats not where I grew up. Nina Winchester and I couldnt be more different, but if shed like to believe were neighbors, then Im only too happy to go along with it.

Mrs. Winchester tucks a strand of shiny, golden-blond hair behind her ear. Her hair is chin-length, cut into a fashionable bob that de-emphasizes her double chin. Shes in her late thirties, and with a different hairstyle and different clothing, she would be very ordinary-looking. But she has used her considerable wealth to make the most of what shes got. I cant say I dont respect that.

I have gone the exact opposite direction with my appearance. I may be over ten years younger than the woman sitting across from me, but I dont want her to feel at all threatened by me. So for my interview, I selected a long, chunky wool skirt that I bought at the thrift store and a polyester white blouse with puffy sleeves. My dirty-blond hair is pulled back into a severe bun behind my head. I even purchased a pair of oversized and unnecessary tortoiseshell glasses that sit perched on my nose. I look professional and utterly unattractive.

So the job, she says. It will be mostly cleaning and some light cooking if youre up for it. Are you a good cook, Millie?

Yes, I am. My ease in the kitchen is the only thing on my resume that isnt a lie. Im an excellent cook.

Her pale blue eyes light up. Thats wonderful! Honestly, we almost never have a good home-cooked meal. She titters. Who has the time?

I bite back any kind of judgmental response. Nina Winchester doesnt work, she only has one child whos in school all day, and shes hiring somebody to do all her cleaning for her. I even saw a man in her enormous front yard doing her gardening for her. How is it possible she doesnt have time to cook a meal for her small family?

I shouldnt judge her. I dont know anything about what her life is like. Just because shes rich, it doesnt mean shes spoiled.

But if I had to bet a hundred bucks either way, Id bet Nina Winchester is spoiled rotten.

And well need occasional help with Cecelia as well, Mrs. Winchester says. Perhaps taking her to her afternoon lessons or playdates. You have a car, dont you?

I almost laugh at her question. Yes, I do have a carits all I have right now. My ten-year-old Nissan is stinking up the street in front of her house, and its where I am currently living. Everything I own is in the trunk of that car. I have spent the last month sleeping in the backseat.

After a month of living in your car, you realize the importance of some of the little things in life. A toilet. A sink. Being able to straighten your legs out while youre sleeping. I miss that last one most of all.

Yes, I have a car, I confirm.