“Millie?”
I turn around. Her white dress glows in the moonlight filtering into the hallway, like she’s an angel. Except for the blood. And now I can also see a tiny pool of crimson forming on the floor, under her injured right hand. “Yes?”
“Stay up in the attic at night.” She blinks at me. “Do you understand?”
She doesn’t have to tell me a second time. I never want to come out of the attic again.
NINETEEN
The next morning, Nina has morphed back into the more pleasant version of herself, having seemingly forgotten last night. I would think it was all a terrifying dream except for the bandage wrapped around her right hand. The white gauze is dotted with crimson.
Although she’s not being directly weird with me, Nina is more frazzled than usual this morning. When she goes to drive Cecelia to school, her tires screech against the pavement. When she returns, she just stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, staring at the walls, until I finally come out of the kitchen and ask if she’s all right.
“I’m fine.” She tugs at the collar of her white blouse, which is wrinkled even though I am certain I ironed it. “Would you be so kind as to make me some breakfast, Millie? The usual?”
“Of course,” I say.
“The usual” for Nina is three eggs, scrambled in a lot of butter and Parmesan cheese, four slices of bacon, and an English muffin, also buttered. I can’t help but think of the comments the other PTA woman made about Nina’s weight while she was in the other room, although I respect that she doesn’t scrutinize every calorie that goes in her mouth the way they do. Nina isn’t gluten-free or vegan. As far as I can tell, she eats whatever she wants and then some. She even has late-night snacks, as evidenced by the dirty plates she leaves behind on the counter for me to wash in the morning. Not one of those plates has ever made it into the dishwasher.
I serve the plate of food to her at the dining table with a glass of orange juice on the side. She scrutinizes the food, and I’m worried I’ve got the version of Nina that’s going to tell me that everything on this plate is cooked poorly, or else claim that she flat out never asked me for breakfast in the first place. But instead, she smiles sweetly at me. “Thank you, Millie.”
“You’re welcome.” I hesitate, hovering over her. “By the way, Andrew asked me if I would get you two tickets to Showdown on Broadway.”
Her eyes light up. “He’s so thoughtful. Yes, that would be lovely.”
“What are some days that work for you?”
She scoops some eggs into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I’m free a week from Sunday, if you can swing it.”
“Sure. And I can watch Cecelia, of course.”
She scoops more eggs into her mouth. Some of it misses her lips and falls onto her white blouse. She doesn’t seem to even notice it’s there and continues shoveling food into her mouth.
“Thank you again, Millie.” She winks at me. “I really don’t know what we would do without you.”
She likes to tell me that. Or that she’s going to fire me. One or the other.
But I suppose it’s not her fault. Nina definitely has emotional problems like her friends said. I can’t stop thinking about her alleged stay in a psychiatric hospital. They don’t lock you up for nothing. Something bad must’ve happened, and part of me is dying to know what it is. But it’s not like I could ask her. And my attempts to get the story out of Enzo have been fruitless.
Nina has nearly cleaned her entire plate, having devoured the eggs, bacon, and English muffin in less than five minutes, when Andrew jogs downstairs. I had been a little worried about him after last night, even though I heard the water running. Not that it was a likely scenario, but maybe, I don’t know, Nina had the faucet on some sort of automatic timer just to make it seem like he was in the bathroom, alive and well. Like I said, it didn’t seem likely, but it also didn’t seem impossible. In any case, it’s a relief to find him intact. My breath catches a bit at the sight of his dark gray suit paired with a light blue dress shirt.
Just before Andrew enters the dining room, Nina pushes her plate of food away. She stands up and smooths out her blond hair, which lacks its usual shine, and the dark roots are even more visible than before.
“Hello, Andy.” She offers him a dazzling smile. “How are you this morning?”
He starts to answer her, but then his eyes dart down to the bit of egg still clinging to her blouse. One side of his lips quirks up. “Nina, you have a little egg on you.”