“Alright,” Rich says, leaning back and studying me with an inquisitive expression. “What’s the scoop? How have your first few days in Lakeside Estates gone?”
It’s the morning after I discovered the medications Lauren is taking. I’m sitting in my room with bright sunlight streaming through the windows, talking remotely with my therapist for too many years to count. His friendly, wise-beyond-his-years face stares patiently at me from the laptop screen.
“Well,” I say, trying to think of where to begin, “it’s been interesting, to say the least.”
He waits, his silence a prompt.
“I’m taking care of a former model,” I say, deciding to start with facts. “Lauren recently had plastic surgery and is on a recovery regimen." I glance out the window for a moment, gathering my thoughts. "She's... delicate. And her husband, Christopher, is very controlling."
"Controlling how?" Rich asks, his brow furrowing with concern.
"I mean, he's the one who put her on all these medications. Clonidine, Diazepam... I suspect the combination is causing her to faint regularly."
Silence hangs heavy between us as Rich digests the information. "That sounds complicated, Emily," he finally says. "Why do you think Christopher would put her on such a risky combination of drugs?"
There’s a knock at the front door—I can hear it all the way upstairs. Christopher is at work, and Lauren is suntanning again, so there’s no one to answer it. Probably just a reporter angling for a story.
"I don't know," I tell Rich. "But I found Lauren's journal yesterday. She wrote about how she doesn't recognize herself anymore, how she's drowning under the weight of expectations and appearances…” I trail off, realizing I’ve just admitted to a blatant invasion of Lauren’s privacy.
"Emily," Rich says, his tone carrying a note of gentle chastisement, "reading your client's journal is unethical. You know that."
I wince. "I know... I...I didn't mean to. I came across it by accident. It was already open."
He looks at me for several long moments, then nods. "Just remember that a job like yours is built on trust. Break it, and it'll be very difficult to build it back up again."
"I know," I say, nodding.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He’s creating space for me to share whatever’s on my mind. I’ve always liked that about Rich—how good he is at teasing the words out of me.
I hesitate before saying, “There's something else. The husband, Christopher, has a mistress."
Rich raises an eyebrow. "You're sure about that?"
I nod, biting my bottom lip as I recall overhearing Christopher’s conversation with Sophie. “I don’t know whether to say something to Lauren or not. Given how secretive they were being, it seems pretty obvious Lauren doesn’t know about it. If I tell her, it might ruin their marriage, but if I don't, it feels like I'm betraying her trust."
Rich rubs his chin thoughtfully. "That's a tough spot to be in. But keep in mind that this isn't your marriage, nor is it your responsibility to fix it."
"But what about Lauren?" I protest. "She has a right to know. She’s being lied to."
"And she also has a right to learn the truth from her husband and not her home aide.” His words sting, but I know he's right.
We sit in silence for a moment as I let his words sink in. It's not my place to play cupid or detective; I'm here to look after Lauren's health.
Then again, can I really sit idly by while her health deteriorates?
“It sounds like you have a lot going on,” Rich says. “How are you doing? Are you taking time for self-care?”
I am about to answer when I hear that knock for a third time. Someone is persistent.
“Everything alright?” Rich asks, noticing my distraction.
“Yes. Maybe. I think I should go get the door—it could be important.”
“Should we reschedule?”
I hesitate, unsure of when I'll be able to steal away to meet with him again. "Let's just plan for next week," I say.
He studies me in silence for several long seconds. “Okay,” he finally says. “But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a call, understand?”
“Of course. Thanks, Rich.”
I close the laptop and move swiftly down the grand staircase, the echoes of my footsteps swallowed by the expanse of marble and glass. The mansion feels a bit more familiar now, less like an elaborate stage set and more like a place where people actually live—albeit people vastly different from me.
The knocking grows louder, each rap an urgent punctuation. I reach the door just as it's punctuated by another firm knock. With a deep breath, I open it to find a man in the doorway. He's tall, possibly in his early fifties, with a weary smile and a weathered complexion that speaks of a life lived outdoors. His eyes are sharp and alert.
"Hello," he says, holding out his hand. "My name is Detective Marcus Vaughn."
I resist the urge to take a step back. Detectives don't show up at your door unless something is seriously wrong. Or if they think you've done something wrong.
"What can I do for you?" I ask in what I hope is a casual voice.
"I'm investigating the case of an unidentified woman found near the lakeshore a few months back," he explains. "I'm just following up on a few leads. May I come in?"
My heart beats hard against my ribcage as I step aside to let him enter. Detective Vaughn passes through the opulence of the mansion with a detached curiosity before settling into one of the antique chairs in the drawing room.
"I appreciate your time, miss...?" He trails off, looking at me expectantly.
"Just," I say, forcing a smile. "Emily Just."
He nods, jotting down my name in a small, weathered notebook. "Miss Just," he repeats. His gaze lifts to meet mine. "I understand you are the home aide for Mrs. Hollingsworth. Is she available for a brief conversation?"
"Actually, Mrs. Hollingsworth is currently resting. She's been feeling a little under the weather recently."
Detective Vaughn nods agreeably. “And how long have you been working for the Hollingsworths, if you don’t mind my asking?"
“Only a few days," I reply, hoping my face doesn't betray the unease churning within me.
“A few days,” he repeats, jotting this down. He seems so relaxed, so companionable. Is that his personality or just a ruse to get me to lower my guard?
“How do you like it so far?” he asks.
"It's... certainly different," I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm still adjusting."
He nods again—he seems to nod at everything I say, as if to tell me my words are perfectly reasonable. It’s almost as easy talking to him as it is talking to Rich.
“I hope Mrs. Hollingsworth is on the mend?”
I am about to tell him my concerns about the medication, but a warning voice tells me to keep my cards close to the vest, at least until I know exactly why he’s asking these questions. Is he fishing for something in particular or for whatever he can catch?
“She’s a fighter,” I say with a smile, sidestepping the question. Why not turn the spotlight back on him? “This unidentified woman you mentioned—what exactly happened to her?”
The detective blinks at me. His expression is blank, but I get the impression I’ve surprised him. Then he relaxes into an easy smile. “Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
Before I can ask anything else, he rises with a good-natured groan.
“Thank you for humoring me, Ms. Just,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’ll be in touch.” He hands me a business card. "In case you need to contact me for any reason."
I'm not exactly sure what this means, so I just nod and accept the card.
I follow the detective anxiously to the door, unsure what to make of his visit.
“Should I have Mr. or Mrs. Hollingsworth reach out to you?” I ask.
He stops at the door and turns back. “No need,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be back again.” He raps once on the frame of the door, then disappears outside.