I stare at her, surprised and uncertain what to say.
“Why…” I begin, meaning to ask her why she’s been following me, but she answers before I can finish putting the thought together.
“What do you say we talk somewhere more comfortable? Maybe get a few hot chocolates?”
“I think I blew a tire.”
"No problem. Got a spare in the trunk?"
"Yes," I answer uncertainly. It's been a while since I changed a tire.
"Pop the trunk and I'll take care of it."
I pop the trunk. She leans in, fumbles around for a moment, and then emerges with the tire, the jack, and the lug wrench. As she sets to work, I debate whether to get out and help. It seems rude to just sit here, but I feel so much safer inside, like a bird hiding in its nest.
Not to mention, it's a heck of a lot drier.
It's probably best if I stay inside—I doubt I would be much help, anyway. Elena makes quick work putting the donut on, and then she shoves the popped tire into the trunk and slams it shut.
"That was quick," I say as she returns to my window.
Smiling grimly, she wipes a rain-slicked strand of hair off her forehead. "I used to work as a mechanic before being employed by the Hollingsworths. Comes in handy sometimes. But don't drive on that donut too long, and try not to go on the highway if you can help it."
"Yes, ma'am. Still want to get those hot chocolates?"
"Of course. There’s a diner I know in town. Follow me.” With that, she returns to her vehicle and turns around.
I follow behind her car, the twin red glow of its tail lights guiding me. The rain has eased a bit, and as we near the town, the darkness gives way to an occasional street lamp casting feeble light onto the wet asphalt. Elena's car pulls into a parking lot beside an old-fashioned diner, its retro neon sign flickering in the drizzle.
I park beside her and step out of my car, wrapping my coat tighter around me against the chill. Elena, seeming impervious to the cold and wet, strides toward the entrance of the diner. I follow suit, catching up to her just as she pushes open the door.
The warmth of the diner is immediate and welcoming. The soft glow from the hanging lamps bathes everything in a golden hue, and there's an aroma of grilled cheese and coffee that fills my lungs with each breath I take. We walk through the diner to a booth at the back, where we both sit down.
Seeing her face under the fluorescent lights of the diner, Elena Sandoval looks worn. There are creases of worry interspersed with lines of past laughter etched on her features. The rain has matted her hair to her face and darkened the fabric of her faded denim jacket. She looks at me with those weary brown eyes and asks, "How about some world famous hot chocolate?"
I nod, and she signals the waitress over. The diner is empty save for us and an old man at the counter nursing a cup of joe. The establishment carries the feel of a fading era, its chrome and vinyl fixtures harkening back to simpler times. Elena appears comfortable, as though she's been here many times before.
“I used to come here all the time, just to get away from the house,” she says, gazing wistfully about the room. “When I wasn’t swamped with chores, that is. I’d bring a crossword puzzle or a beat-up novel from the library and just sit here for hours. The owners didn’t mind. They knew me.”
I want to ask more, to understand why she felt the need to escape the Hollingsworth household, but the waitress arrives with our hot chocolates then, interrupting our conversation.
“Get you any food?” the waitress, a middle-aged woman with a kind but tired smile, asks. Her voice is a raspy drawl, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as she greets Elena like an old friend.
“Not for me,” Elena says. Both sets of eyes turn toward me, and I shake my head. The hot chocolate will be enough.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” the waitress says with a wink.
“Thanks, Doreen,” Elena says. As Doreen moves on, Elena’s gaze returns to me and I see a strange sort of intensity in those brown eyes, like a spark waiting to ignite. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before they got another home aide," she says, stirring her hot chocolate with a spoon. "I wonder why you got the job. You seem... different from the rest."
"Different how?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under her probing gaze.
She shrugs. "More… down-to-earth. Not so desperate to impress. I know I've only just met you, but I'm good at reading people."
I frown, warming my hands around the ceramic mug. “I don’t know. When I first walked into that house a couple days ago, I almost felt like I was in the Louvre.”
Elena studies me for a moment longer before she lets out a small laugh, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Okay, so maybe you’re a bit bedazzled,” she says, taking a small sip from her mug. “But you still seem to have your wits about you, and that’s a good thing. Some people catch a glimpse of all that glitz and glamor and turn instantly into lapdogs, eager to do anything to please their masters.”
We fall into silence then—the kind that’s comfortable between strangers who have nothing left to say. Something she said earlier floats back to me.
“You said I seem different from ‘the rest,’” I say. “How many home aides have the Hollingsworths had—before you, I mean?”
Elena’s spoon clinks against the rim of her mug as she sets it down, a distant look in her eyes. "Too many," she says after a moment. "Most leave within the first few months."
"And why is that?" I ask, stirring my own hot chocolate absently.
She takes a deep breath, staring into the depths of her mug as though it holds all the answers. "Sometimes, they couldn't handle Lauren's demands. Other times, they... they just got scared away."
My heart stutters at that. "Scared away?"
She studies me with an inscrutable expression. "That house isn’t just full of beautiful things and rich people. There are a lot of secrets, some darker than others."
I remember the key I found hidden in a vase of flowers and wonder if it's one of the secrets Elena is talking about. It flickers through my brain that maybe I can’t trust her—after all, I don’t know what stake she has in all this—but I dismiss it immediately.
I pull the key from my pocket and show it to Elena. “I found this in a vase of flowers,” I say. “Do you have any idea what it might open?”
Elena leans in and studies the key, her brow furrowing slightly. She extends a hand, and I hesitate for a moment before passing it over. She turns it over in her hands, her expression growing unreadable.
"This key goes to Christopher’s study,” she says after a while.
“You’re sure? How do you know?”
“There was an emergency while he was away on a business trip—he’d left a cigar smoldering in his office, and it tripped the smoke alarm. Anyway, he had me go into his office, one of the only times I was ever allowed in there. This key—” she gestures at the key in her hands— “was hidden on the mantel in the living room. I guess he must’ve moved it since then.”
I sit back, disappointed. I’d hoped for something more exciting than a study. But the thought of entering Christopher’s private sanctum gives me an odd thrill, nonetheless. This is my chance to uncover more about the enigmatic owner of the mansion.
I look at Elena, her words from earlier echoing in my head. ‘You seem...different from the rest.’ Perhaps she's right. Perhaps this is what makes me different—this willingness to step into the unknown. I'm not just another stranger walking into this house; I am a seeker, looking for answers.
"Did you find anything interesting in there?" I ask, recalling her tale of the cigar incident.
She shakes her head slowly, lost in reminiscence. "I didn't have time to snoop around. I extinguished the cigar and got out as quick as I could. After all, it wasn't my place."
We both fall silent. As we sip our hot chocolates, an obvious question I’ve been meaning to ask returns to mind. “Elena, were you spying on me earlier this morning at the Hollingsworths'?"
"Spying on you?" She looks puzzled. "No, I wasn't there."
So maybe it was a deer, after all.
"Then why were you following me later?”
Elena stares across the room, saying nothing. She makes no attempt to deny the suggestion, which tells me my instincts were correct. The only question is, how did she find me, and what does she want?
Elena’s silence drags on, and I begin to realize she may not answer me at all. But then she takes a deep breath and turns to me, her eyes meeting mine.
"I felt I owed you the truth," she finally says. "I didn’t want you to go through what I went through."
I frown, choosing my words carefully. “Lauren told me you were let go for being ‘indiscreet.’”
“Indiscreet? Is that what she told you?”
Elena shakes her head with a bitter sort of amusement. "Indiscreet—that's a lovely way to put it." She takes a long sip of her hot chocolate before setting it down on the table. Her gaze lingers on the disappearing swirls of steam. "What Lauren really meant was that I asked too many questions."
Questions. That word resonates within me. I find myself thinking back to the countless times I have already found myself questioning, reflecting upon my own curiosity, my own thirst for answers. “And what were you asking about?”
Elena hesitates, her eyes dropping down to her folded hands. “I don’t want to tell you what to do,” she says, “but I will give you my advice. You can take it or leave it.”
“Please.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “That house is full of secrets—and I don’t just mean the kind of secrets the tabloids would pay good money for. I’m talking about secrets that are dangerous.”
“You’re scaring me,” I say with a nervous smile, trying to break the tension.
“Good,” she says, dead serious. She leans forward. “Because here’s my advice: You need to get out while you still can. Run as far away from that place as you can and never look back. Because if you don’t do it now…” She shakes her head sadly. “Let’s just say, I was lucky I only got fired. Had things gone a little differently, I could have lost far more than just my job.”