“Um,” I say.
“What sort of food did they serve you there?” she presses me. “I’ve always been curious about that. What’s prison food like?”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t deny it. She knows my past. “It’s okay.”
“Well, I hope you don’t get inspired by any meals you had there,” she laughs. “Stick with what you’ve been doing. You’re doing a good job.”
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Andrew’s face is ashen. Of course, he had no idea I was ever in prison. I never even considered telling him. Somehow, when I’m with him, that time in my life seems like something from the distant past—another lifetime. But most people don’t see it that way. To most people, I am only one thing. A convict.
And Nina wants to make sure I know my place.
Right now, I’m desperate to escape Andrew’s shocked expression. I turn around to head back up to my room. I’m nearly at the stairwell when Nina calls out to me, “Millie?”
I stop, my back going rigid. It takes all my self-restraint to keep from snapping at her when I turn around. I slowly walk back to the dining room with an artificial smile on my face. “Yes, Nina?”
She frowns. “You forgot to put out the salt and pepper shaker. And unfortunately, this pork chop does need a bit of salt. I wish you would be more generous with the seasoning.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I walk into the kitchen and grab the salt and pepper shakers from the counter. They were roughly six feet away from where Nina was sitting in the other room. I bring them out to the dining room, and despite my efforts not to, I slam the shakers down on the table. When I look at Nina, the corners of her lips are twitching.
“Thank you so much, Millie,” she says. “Please don’t forget it again.”
I hope she steps on a shard of broken glass.
I can’t even look at Andrew. God knows what he must be thinking about me. I can’t believe I was contemplating some sort of future with him. I wasn’t really, but for a split second… Well, stranger things have happened. But that’s out the window now. He looked horrified when she mentioned I had been in prison. If only I could explain…
I manage to make it to the stairs this time without Nina calling me over to tell me that, I don’t know, I need to pass the butter from the other side of the table or something like that. I trudge up the steps to the second floor, then up the darker, narrow set of steps to my bedroom. I slam the door behind me, wishing not for the first time that I could lock it.
I plop down on my bed, trying to keep the tears from welling up. I wonder how long Nina has known about my past. Did she only recently discover it, or did she do a background check when she hired me after all? Maybe she liked the idea of hiring a convict. Someone she could boss around. Anyone else would have quit months ago.
While I am sitting on the bed, feeling sorry for myself, something on my nightstand catches my eye.
It’s a copy of the playbill from Showdown.
I pick it up, confused. Why is the playbill on my nightstand? I put it in my purse after the show, and I’ve been keeping it in there as a reminder of that magical night. My purse is on the floor, leaning against the dresser. So how did the playbill get on the nightstand? I definitely didn’t take it out. I’m sure of it.
Someone else must’ve put it there. I locked the door to the room, but I’m not the only one here who has the key.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I finally understand why Nina blurted out that I had been in prison. She knows that I saw the show with Andrew. She knows we were in Manhattan together, all alone. I’m not sure if she knows we spent the night at The Plaza, but she knows we weren’t home at eleven o’clock at night. And I’m sure if she’s smart enough, she could find out whether or not we checked into the hotel.
Nina knows everything.
I have just made a dangerous enemy.
THIRTY-ONE
As part of my new daily regimen of torture, Nina has made it her goal to make shopping as challenging for me as she possibly can.
She has written out a list of items we need from the grocery store. But they are all very specific. She doesn’t want milk. She wants organic milk from Queensland Farm. And if they don’t have the exact item she wants, I have to text her to let her know and send her pictures of other possible replacements. And she takes her sweet time texting me back, but I have to stand there in the goddamn milk aisle waiting.
Right now, I’m in the bread aisle. I send Nina a text: