I bring up the list of phone numbers programmed into the phone. Graham’s name is listed first. Then there’s a listing for “Dad”—thank God it seems like my father is still alive and well. And then there’s Lucy. I feel a rush of relief at the sight of her name. Lucy has been my best friend since the first day of college, even before I knew Harry. It’s a comfort to know that with just one click, I can hear her voice. I’m tempted to call her now, but with Graham right next to me, it seems rude.
There’s only one other name on the favorites list. And it’s one I don’t recognize.
“Who is Camila?” I ask.
Before Graham can answer me, the doorbell rings. He swivels his head in the direction of the sound. “Actually,” he says, “you’re about to meet her.”
Chapter 5
Graham disappears into the living room to open the door and greet Camila. I stay behind, pushing the eggs around my plate. They don’t taste much better than the overcooked bacon, but at least they’re edible. Barely.
Ziggy has gone to the back door, and he’s yapping at it, eager to go outside. I wonder if I could take him out into the backyard. I assume the backyard must be fenced in. I’d love to sit outside with him while he plays. It will be nice to get some fresh air.
But then when I go to the back door and try to open the lock, I realize there’s a problem. You can’t simply turn the lock to open the door. There’s a keyhole.
The back door requires a key to open it from the inside.
A sick feeling washes over me as I jiggle the door knob, wondering if this is some kind of mistake. I’m not locked inside here, am I? Why would the door lock this way? What’s going on?
“Tess?”
I whirl around, my heart pounding. Graham is standing in the kitchen, and next to him is a woman in her mid-twenties. The woman is gorgeous. She has black hair pulled into a stylishly messy bun behind her head, falling in sexy tendrils around her face, a perfectly pert nose, and plump lips. She doesn’t have one scrap of makeup on her flawless light brown skin. She blinks her big brown eyes at me, probably having witnessed my struggle with the back door.
“Hello, Tess.” The woman’s voice is gentle and has a bit of a rasp to it, like the voice of someone far older than her twenty-something years. “I’m Camila.”
Considering her number is programmed into my phone, I suspect I have met this woman dozens if not hundreds of times before. It’s embarrassing that she has to introduce herself to me. It wasn’t quite as bad when it was just me and Graham, but I’m starting to feel like a mental patient.
“Hi,” I say. “Um. Sorry to be rude but… who are you?”
“Camila keeps the house clean for us,” Graham says.
So… she is the cleaning woman? That doesn’t seem quite right. First of all, why would I have her number programmed into my phone? Also, how come she doesn’t have any cleaning supplies?
“Also,” he adds, “if you want to go anywhere during the day, Camila will help you get there. She’ll keep you company. And drive you wherever you want to go.”
I look over at the beautiful Camila, who is staring intently back at me. “I can handle driving,” I say.
Graham and Camila exchange looks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tess,” he says.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Why not? I’m an excellent driver. And I know this neighborhood. Why can’t I drive?”
Graham’s eyes evade mine. “You have seizures from your head injury. Legally, you can’t drive.”
Graham is looking away, but Camila is looking straight at me, her gaze unwavering. She doesn’t seem even the slightest bit uncomfortable about this conversation. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Tess,” she says. This time I notice a trace of an accent in her raspy voice.
I stare straight back at her, trying to get her to look away or at least blink. But if this is a blinking contest, she is clearly the master.
“The back door is locked from the inside,” I say. “Where’s the key?”
“I’ve got a key,” Camila says.
A lump forms in my throat. “Where is my key?”
“Listen, Tess.” Graham comes around the side of the kitchen island to stand closer to me. “Like I said, if you want to go anywhere, just let us know.”
My pulse starts to jump. The letter I wrote to myself said to relax and trust my husband, but I don’t like any of this. This woman is not here to clean—she clearly has been hired to watch me all day. I’m a prisoner in my own home and she’s my warden. There’s something off about this entire situation.