DAISY
October 31, 2019. Thursday.
Six hours and six minutes before the murder.
Daisy is dressed and made up for dinner when Jon carries his briefcase in through the door.
Waddling up to him, she smiles, goes up on her toes, and kisses him. “I put some clothes out on the bed for you.” She wants him to look his best. Daisy has pride—she needs to impress Vanessa and Haruto.
“I don’t know that I’m up for this, Daize.”
She takes a good look at her husband and realizes he looks terrible. “Oh, Jon, you look ill. What happened? Do you want me to take you back to the hospital?”
“No, I’m fine. Just beat.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. It sticks up, wet from the rain.
She becomes aware that his shirt is damp, too, and he smells of alcohol. Worry worms into Daisy. “What’s going on?”
“Just a . . . rough day. Those investors pulled out.”
“Was that what your big meeting was about this morning?”
“Yeah.” He turns away from her, opens the hall closet. He shrugs out of his damp jacket, drapes it over a coat hanger.
“You get caught in the rain?”
“Obviously.”
“Jon?”
He faces her.
She regards him. “Did you hear something bad about the new job? Is this to do with that Ahmed Waheed guy?”
“No, Daisy. I said it was just a rough day.”
She stares at her husband’s back as he turns away from her. Something awful has happened. He’s lying to her.
“Are you sure going out to dinner is—”
“It’s fine,” he snaps. “I said I’ll be fine.”
He goes up the stairs to change. And Daisy knows—she just knows. Nothing is fine.
When Jon comes back downstairs, he’s showered and dressed, and looks presentable. She forces a smile, kisses him on the cheek, and tells him he looks handsome.
“I called ahead to order a pie and flowers to take to the Norths,” she says. “We can pick them up along the way. Is that okay?”
He nods and finds his car keys.
Rain falls steadily as they leave Rose Cottage. Their neighborhood streets are cluttered with little ghosts and goblins carrying jack-o’-lanterns, treat bags, and flashlights. Carved pumpkins flicker and glow in windows. As Jon drives, Daisy keeps glancing at him. He’s distant, definitely preoccupied.
“I’m sorry about the clients,” she says.
He nods. A muscle twitches at the base of his jaw.
“There will be others,” she offers. “Other investors. The new resort is such an—”
“It’s okay, Daize. Don’t worry about it.”
She bites her tongue and stares out the window. She wants to ask him more about how things are progressing with the decision on a new COO, but she doesn’t dare. Not tonight. She wants things to go perfectly tonight in front of her friends.
When they enter the seaside lane on the North Shore and turn into the Glass House driveway, Daisy sees a car parked there already. It’s yellow. A Subaru Crosstrek. On the side door is the logo for Holly’s Help. Her heart flips and starts to hammer. Vanessa has the maid here? Her mind spins back to the conversation she had with Vanessa.
I was just wondering if we might have the same maid.
You mean Kit?
Yes—yes, I think that must be the same one. Kit Darling?
Daisy thinks of Charley Waters and the Chucky doll.
This is about Kit, isn’t it?
Her mouth turns dry. Anxiety rushes into her veins. She glances at her husband.
Jon is peering at the Subaru, then his gaze goes to the large, modern mansion of glass and steel and concrete. It’s all lit up inside. A glowing glass box in the bleak Halloween darkness.
“Nice place,” he says quietly.
“I know, right?” Daisy says. But her mind is on the Subaru and the maid. Her pulse is galloping. Maybe it’s another maid from Holly’s Help.
“What is it?” Jon asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I—it’s nothing. I’m just thinking that Vanessa and I—we probably have the same maid.”
They exit the car. Daisy carries the pie and the bouquet because Jon is checking something on his phone.
Daisy steps up onto the paved entryway. She can see straight through the glass door and side panel into the home. Candles have been placed everywhere. Jon lingers just behind her, still busy with his phone.
“Jon, can you ring the bell, please? My hands are full.”
He puts his phone away and steps forward to ring the bell.
It clangs inside.
Daisy watches the candles flicker.
Jon rings again.
Vanessa hurries into Daisy’s view. She wears glittery red devil’s horns on her head, and she’s carrying a trident. Daisy begins to smile. Her friend is dressed for Halloween—tiny black skirt, a devil’s tail with an arrow at the end, striped witchy stockings, black shoes with high, square heels. Frilly little white maid’s apron. A velvet choker around her neck. Daisy’s smile suddenly begins to fade as Vanessa nears. It strikes her in slow motion. Vanessa-the-devil is wearing a cropped black T-shirt imprinted with a Chucky doll holding a knife.
Die die die die Baby Bean die . . .
Daisy’s brain folds in on herself.
Her friend has no baby bump.
Her heart begins to thump.
Ticktock goes the clock . . .
Vanessa swings open the door. She smiles broadly, revealing sharp vampire teeth.
“Well, hello, Daisy,” Vanessa says. “And you must be Jon? Come in—come on in.”
Well, hello, Daisy.
Welcome home, Daisy.
It’s been a while, Daisy.
Chucky knows who Bad Mommy iz. Chucky knows what Bad Mommy didz.
Daisy blinks. Her world narrows.
It’s Vanessa. It’s her friend. But she has no baby tummy.
“What—what happened to—” The question tumbles from Daisy’s mouth as her brain struggles to interpret her visual stimuli and catch up.
“Oh, you mean this?” Vanessa reaches up, removes her horns, and takes off her hair. She replaces the devil horns, smiles her vampire smile again.
Daisy’s gaze drops to her hands. The devil is holding Vanessa’s hair. Daisy’s eyes shoot up. Her gaze locks on the devil-woman’s. Her eyes are not Vanessa’s eyes. They are bright blue.
Daisy feels dizzy. Her hands go limp, and the pie and flowers clatter to her feet. The pie smashes open, the box breaks, and dark-purple blackberry filling oozes out. In slow, thick motion, Daisy turns to her husband.
His face is sheet white. He’s frozen. As though he’s seen the devil . . . and it’s real.
THE MAID’S DIARY
So what if people pretend they are something they aren’t? Is it a lie? A crime?
Is it just perception? A sleight-of-hand narrative?
We all project something. Be it in the way we choose to dress—boho, smart casual, sporty, artsy, goth, sophisticated, wealthy socialite, sex kitten, tomboy, biker chick, dancer chic—we put it out there in one shape or another.
How different is wearing a wig and makeup and colored contacts and talking in a different accent, walking in a different way, from posting an Instagram selfie in blurred portrait mode, or with an applied filter, or cutting out background that doesn’t mesh with the brand we want to project to the world? How different is dressing up from posing in front of a five-star hotel that we could never afford, but not saying that we never actually stayed there, just allowing people to draw their own conclusions by juxtaposition? （Like posing in front of the blue Tesla, or the baby’s crib in another woman’s house, or in Vanessa North’s designer outfits from her closet.）