I wake to the sound of heels clicking across the tiled floor.
I am still in the hospital waiting room, and I have the sense that a great deal of time has passed since I fell asleep here. I check the time. I’ve been here all night.
Apparently I needed the sleep.
I glance up and see a woman striding past me, a phone pressed to the side of her head. She's wearing a slim-fitting skirt and a blouse that hugs her figure in all the right places. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her makeup is impeccable.
“I’m heading out now,” she says into the phone. “Yes, see you there.”
As she ends the call, I realize I recognize that voice.
“Sophie?” I say, standing as she passes me. She turns around, surprised, and blinks at me.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Emily Just. I’m the Hollingsworths’ new home aide.” It suddenly occurs to me that I only recognized her voice because I overheard her and Christopher talking during that late-night meeting of theirs, a meeting I eavesdropped on.
Sophie, however, doesn’t seem interested in knowing how I recognize her. She gives me a long, evaluating look, and whatever she sees doesn’t seem to impress her very much. Perhaps she’s concluded I’m not any competition.
“It’s terrible,” she says, as if unsure what else to say. “What happened with Lauren, I mean.”
“Yes.” I pause, puzzled. “I’m sorry, why are you here?”
The bluntness of the question seems to take her aback for a second. “I’m Mr. Hollingsworth’s receptionist. He sent me to check on Lauren.”
I guess it makes sense, given what Lauren told me about Christopher’s fear of hospitals. Still, the fact that he hasn’t visited his own wife after she suffered cardiac arrest…
I find it hard to swallow. "And how is Mr. Hollingsworth doing?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.
She shrugs a little, her lips pursing slightly as she rearranges her bag over her shoulder. "He's...coping," she says.
In silence, we watch a pair of nurses pass by us in a hurry, their voices fading rapidly. The quiet is suffocating. Questions bloom inside me like flowers in spring, but I hesitate to voice them aloud.
"Well," Sophie finally says, casting me a sidelong glance. "If you'll excuse me, I should get back to the office."
And back to Christopher, no doubt, I think.
"He's not who you think he is," I say.
She stops and turns around, puzzled. “I'm sorry?”
“Christopher. Are you aware of what he's done to Lauren?" That's as close as I dare get to sharing my suspicions so openly.
Sophie just stares at me, blinking as if she's sorting through a series of potential responses. "I don't know what you're talking about," she finally says.
"I know you two are involved, and I know Christopher wants his wife out of the way. What I don't know is if you're part of that scheme or not." My boldness surprises me. My chest heaves with each breath, as if my body is preparing me for a physical fight—which doesn't seem impossible, judging by the surprise and indignation on Sophie's face.
"Excuse me?" she says. She glances left and right before striding toward me. "I don't know where you're getting your information from, but it's incorrect. Mr. Hollingsworth and I have a professional relationship, that’s all. Who told you otherwise?”
"Just tell me this," I say carefully. "Do you know what he did to her, how she wound up in the hospital? Were you part of it?" It's a bluff—I certainly have no proof that Christopher caused Lauren's heart attack—but I want to see how Sophie responds.
She stares at me as if I’ve sprouted a tail and a pair of horns.
"Are you serious?" she hisses, glancing nervously around the empty waiting room. "First, you accuse me of sleeping with a married man—my employer, no less. Now you insinuate I'm trying to kill his wife?"
“I just want to know the truth,” I say, holding her gaze.
She takes a step back, her face paling with shock or perhaps fear. “I can’t believe I’m even hearing this,” she whispers. She gathers her bag tightly in her hands as if it's her only lifeline in a stormy sea. "You're out of line."
"I think Lauren deserves to know what's happening in her own home, don't you?" My voice is steady, but inside, my heart is pounding like a war drum.
Sophie bristles at that, her eyes flashing. "No one deserves unfounded accusations thrown at them based on some new home aide's wild imagination."
My breath hitches at the insult, but I stand my ground. "It's not just my wild imagination," I say. "Ask Christopher about it—see how he reacts and judge for yourself."
Sophie's mouth snaps shut, and for the first time since this conversation started, I see uncertainty in her eyes. She swallows visibly, her gaze darting away from me before returning with a renewed defiance.
"This conversation is over," she says finally. With that, she strides hastily toward the exit. She does not look back.
Alone in the waiting room again, I'm left with an eerie silence that hangs heavily around me like a fog. Sophie's denial rings hollow in my ears. But it's not her affair with Christopher that most concerns me. No, if that was the only issue here, I wouldn't say anything—after all, Lauren and Oliver may very well be doing the same sort of thing.
Lauren, however, hasn't attempted to kill her spouse. Can Christopher say the same?
I think then of Detective Vaughn’s visit. Should I reach out to him, let him know my suspicions? No—he’ll just tell me that’s all they are—suspicions. I have no proof, nothing that would stand up in court.
So, maybe I need to find a way to gather proof.
I feel for the key still hidden in my pocket, the key to Christopher’s home office. What secrets might be hiding in there? Proof of his affair with Sophie, which would give him motive for murder? What about research on his computer about the harmful side effects of mixing certain medications? There’s no telling what damning evidence might lie behind that door.
But there’s one way to find out.
* * *
I stand before the door to Christopher’s home office, fiddling with the key and asking myself if I’m really going to do this.
His car is gone, so I have no doubt he’s away at the office. And with Lauren in the hospital, I have the house to myself.
I take a deep breath, chastising myself for the tremors in my hands. It's not like I've never invaded someone's privacy before. After all, I've been snooping around this mansion ever since I arrived.
Still…this feels different. This feels like crossing a line from curiosity to betrayal.
The key slides into the lock with an almost deafening click, piercing the morose silence of the mansion. Turning it, I push open the door, which creaks as if to admonish my audacity.
Christopher's home office is the epitome of power and discipline, not a paper out of place nor a speck of dust in sight. The room smells of rich mahogany and expensive cologne. A massive oak desk takes up most of the space, dominating the room with its imposing presence. An array of framed family photographs adorns one wall, Lauren’s youthful face smiling back at me from happier times.
Swallowing my unease, I cross the threshold and make my way toward the desk. It is littered with stacks of papers: legal documents, business contracts, and more. I leaf through them hastily but carefully, mindful not to leave a trail of my intrusion. There are property deeds, investment portfolios, several other business-related documents—nothing that points to an illicit affair or harmful intentions toward Lauren.
Frustration begins to gnaw at me. I can hear the old grandfather clock in the hallway chiming solemnly. Just when I am about to give up and retreat to my quarters, my eye catches an envelope shoved under a leather-bound planner. It's a regular white envelope, hardly noticeable. But it's the only thing in this immaculate room that appears out of place.
My heart thuds in my chest as I pull it out. It’s not sealed but simply tucked closed. With shaking hands, I ease the flap back and pull out its contents—a stack of photographs.
The top photo freezes me in my tracks. It features Sophie, her hair cascading around her shoulders, but she isn't alone. Christopher is beside her, their bodies pressed together in a way that leaves no room for denial. They are caught in a moment of intimacy as Christopher brushes a strand of hair from Sophie's face, his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that twists my stomach into knots.
As I sift through the remaining photographs, I find more of the same—Sophie and Christopher at various locations around town, always intimate, always secluded. A sickening realization settles over me as I take in the evidence: Christopher and Sophie's affair isn't a mere suspicion anymore. It's a fact.
My hands tremble as I use my phone to take pictures of the photographs. Then I return the photographs to the envelope, tucking it beneath the planner just as I’d found it.
My mind races, unable to process the implications of my discovery. Not only does this confirm my worst fears about Christopher's infidelity, but it also provides him with a motive for murder: Lauren is standing between him and Sophie.
With Lauren out of the picture, maybe they were hoping for a clean start together. But then again, why not divorce Lauren? Is it because of the money? The status that comes with being a Hollingsworth? Or perhaps there is something darker at play, something even I haven't considered yet.
Either way, this is proof. Proof of their affair, and perhaps even motive for murder. It seems I’ve found at least some of what I came for.
Before I leave, however, there's one more thing I need to check: Christopher's computer.
I sit at his massive oak desk, the leather chair cool beneath my body. His computer is password-protected—no surprise there. Maybe the password is written down somewhere.
I check all over the desk, flipping through documents and notepads, but without success. There’s nothing. Then I spot something unusual: a small crevice at the edge of the desk, almost hidden beneath the sleek polished surface. My fingertips brush against it, finding a microscopic catch I can depress with my thumb. A compartment pops open with a soft click, revealing a small notepad.
The notepad is filled with a series of numbers and letters, arranged in neat rows, the crisp handwriting stark against the white paper.
What are the chances these are passwords?
I start typing the first one into the computer, but just then I’m startled by a knock. The sound is coming from the front door of the house, and it’s muffled by the intervening walls. Given the relative silence of the house, however, it's enough to cause me to jump.
Feeling guilty, I hurriedly return the notepad to its hiding place and hurry out of the room, making sure to lock the door behind me. It occurs to me now that if Christopher was hiding a spare key in a vase of flowers, he may notice that the vase is missing and grow suspicious. I should get another vase to replace the first one.
The knock comes again, interrupting my thoughts. Drawn against my will, I make my way to the front door, hoping to peer out the window and get a glimpse of who it might be. As I do so, however, I am surprised and embarrassed to find myself staring into the eyes of Mia Trenton.