Christopher has shut himself in his office for work and Lauren is suntanning down by the lake, so I take the opportunity to explore the lavish mansion.
The Hollingsworths’ home is a grand testament to old money and time-honored tradition. High ceilings, marble floors, and priceless artwork adorn every room I pass through. The enormity of the place is daunting; I feel like a trespasser in a royal palace.
As I walk through the halls, my mind drifts back to the exchange between Lauren and Oliver. The intimacy of their interaction has left me with a heaviness in my chest. My heart skips a beat as I wonder if Lauren’s relationship with Oliver might be the reason for the unspoken conflict between her and Christopher.
Lost in my thoughts, I accidentally bump into a small table in one of the numerous corridors, knocking over an ornate vase filled with fresh flowers. I scramble to save it, but it slips from my hands and shatters on the polished marble floor, water and petals spreading out across the cool surface. My heart pounds as I kneel to clean up the mess, hastily picking up the large shards.
My skin prickles with anxiety, and I glance around, half-expecting to see an irate Christopher, but the hallway is deserted. With a sigh of relief, I continue picking up the shards, berating myself for my clumsiness.
As I gather the scattered petals, my hand brushes against something hard lodged between two pieces of the broken vase. It's a small key, no bigger than my thumbnail, its gold surface gleaming against the white marble floor.
I stare at it for a moment, feeling a sense of intrigue wash over me. It's older than the modern keys I'm used to seeing, with an intricate pattern etched into its bow. I momentarily consider taking the key directly to Mrs. Hollingsworth but decide against it, aware that she might not appreciate my intrusion into her personal business.
I could leave the key nearby—in a drawer, for instance—but the fact that it was in that vase tells me someone didn't want it to be found. No, better to keep it on my person for safekeeping until I can give it to Lauren.
Pocketing the key, I finish cleaning up the remnants of the broken vase and discarded flowers, planning to blame my clumsiness if anyone asks about it. Once done, I stand up and dust off my hands, glancing around one final time before heading toward the kitchen to busy myself with chores.
Yet, as I settle into the rhythm of work in the kitchen, I can’t help but think about that key. What does it unlock? Why was it hidden in a vase? The more I think about it, the more questions arise, adding a layer of unease to my day.
How many secrets does this place hold?
Still, they’ve made it very clear to me that my best course of action is to keep my head down, do the work, and mind my own business. I should probably find a new vase and return the key where I found it. But as I hold the cold metal in my palm, turning it over and examining the elaborate floral pattern etched into its surface, I grapple with a feeling of curiosity I can't quite quell.
Later, I tell myself, I’ll return the key. Later.
But not yet.
* * *
I am switching laundry from the washer to the dryer when I hear the crunch of tires in the driveway.
I straighten, puzzled. It’s late—I’ve been doing chores all day, trying to push my way through the endless list—and Lauren has already retired for the night. Christopher, as far as I know, is still in his office.
So who would be visiting so late at night?
Cautiously, I make my way to the front entrance and peer through the sidelight next to the door. A sleek black sedan sits in the driveway, barely visible in the darkness with the headlights off. A woman steps out of the car, her blonde hair caught by the slight breeze.
A sense of unease floods over me. What is this woman doing here this late at night?
I watch as she approaches the mansion, her high heels clicking against the cobblestone path. Rather than steering toward the main door, however, she goes around the side of the building. I follow her window by window, hoping she won’t notice me in the darkened house.
She reaches a side door. To my surprise, I see that it's unlocked, despite the fact that I made sure it was locked earlier. For a moment, as the door begins to open, I consider confronting the stranger. But at the last moment, I slip behind the wall, peering around the corner to watch her step inside the mansion and close the door behind her.
Who is she? And why is she acting so at home here?
It’s not my business, I remind myself. I’m a home aide, not a security guard. Besides, I hardly know anything about these people since I’ve barely had a full day here.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
Forcing myself away, I return to the laundry room. As I fill my arms with a basket full of clothes, my mind races with possibilities. Is she a family friend? A relative? Something else?
As I carry the basket toward the stairs, I pass Christopher’s office and catch the faint sound of voices. I pause, knowing I should continue on my way but feeling rooted to the spot.
“...just makes me wonder what else I don’t know about.” The woman sounds wounded, unhappy.
“Please, Sophie,” Christopher says, “it’s not like that. You know how I feel about you.”
My heartbeat quickens. Now I know I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation—and yet, I feel powerless to step away.
“I know,” the woman—Sophie—says, sounding resigned. “I just…I don’t want any more surprises, okay?”
“I promise. No more surprises.”
“Okay.”
There’s a long pause. I am just about to tiptoe away when Christopher speaks again.
“Come on. Forget about her—we’re wasting time. Why don’t you and I…” The door begins to creak open. I rush out of the way, darting behind a large ornamental plant just in the nick of time. I peek around its large leaves, heart pounding, to see Christopher exiting the office, one arm wrapped around Sophie. His hand sinks down well below her hip, his fingers giving an intimate squeeze against the fabric of her dress.
As they disappear down the corridor, a heaviness sinks into my chest. I shake my head, chastising myself for spying and getting involved in their business. "It's none of your concern, Emily," I whisper to myself. But deep down, I know it's too late. The curiosity has already taken root.
I glance at my watch and realize it's past midnight. Exhausted but restless, I decide to head to bed. With each step up the grand staircase toward my room on the second floor, my mind spins with questions: Who is Sophie? What are she and Christopher hiding? And what would Lauren do if she knew about it?
Maybe nothing. Considering Lauren's relationship with Oliver, her personal trainer, it seems both spouses have their secrets. Maybe they believe in open marriage, or perhaps they're simply trapped in a loveless union, each seeking solace in someone else's arms. I think about the key I found earlier and wonder if it's connected to this unfolding drama.
On reaching my room, I pause at the door and pull out the tiny key from my pocket. I stare at its antique design for a moment or two before shaking my head, reminding myself that I should focus on doing my job, not playing detective in this mansion of secrets.
However, as I close the heavy oak door of my room behind me and settle into the soft bed, sleep eludes me. My brain whirs with theories, half-remembered conversations, and speculations. It doesn't help that the mansion seems alive with nocturnal sounds: the faint echo of footsteps outside my room, hushed whispers floating up from downstairs, distant doors closing softly. Every creak and murmur fuels my imagination further.
As I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, I slip into an uneasy dream about Dillon, the guy I dated when we were just teenagers. He shows me a number of keys, each one unlocking a different piece of his past: a house he used to live in, a car he once drove, a locker at a gym he no longer attends. But there is one key in the collection that he refuses to speak about. A key with an intricate floral design etched into the bow.
“Why won’t you tell me about it?” I ask.
He grows frustrated. “Because the box it opens is filled with secrets and lies, okay? Once you open it, you can never close it again.”
"Secrets and lies," I echo, frowning. "But isn't it better to know the truth?"
Dillon just looks at me, his eyes filled with regret. "Some truths aren’t worth disturbing. Some truths are better left… buried."