A Trusted Stranger, page 6
I hesitate before saying, “There's something else. The husband, Christopher, has a mistress."
Rich raises an eyebrow. "You're sure about that?"
I nod, biting my bottom lip as I recall overhearing Christopher’s conversation with Sophie. “I don’t know whether to say something to Lauren or not. Given how secretive they were being, it seems pretty obvious Lauren doesn’t know about it. If I tell her, it might ruin their marriage, but if I don't, it feels like I'm betraying her trust."
Rich rubs his chin thoughtfully. "That's a tough spot to be in. But keep in mind that this isn't your marriage, nor is it your responsibility to fix it."
"But what about Lauren?" I protest. "She has a right to know. She’s being lied to."
"And she also has a right to learn the truth from her husband and not her home aide.” His words sting, but I know he's right.
We sit in silence for a moment as I let his words sink in. It's not my place to play cupid or detective; I'm here to look after Lauren's health.
Then again, can I really sit idly by while her health deteriorates?
“It sounds like you have a lot going on,” Rich says. “How are you doing? Are you taking time for self-care?”
I am about to answer when I hear that knock for a third time. Someone is persistent.
“Everything alright?” Rich asks, noticing my distraction.
“Yes. Maybe. I think I should go get the door—it could be important.”
“Should we reschedule?”
I hesitate, unsure of when I'll be able to steal away to meet with him again. "Let's just plan for next week," I say.
He studies me in silence for several long seconds. “Okay,” he finally says. “But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a call, understand?”
“Of course. Thanks, Rich.”
I close the laptop and move swiftly down the grand staircase, the echoes of my footsteps swallowed by the expanse of marble and glass. The mansion feels a bit more familiar now, less like an elaborate stage set and more like a place where people actually live—albeit people vastly different from me.
The knocking grows louder, each rap an urgent punctuation. I reach the door just as it's punctuated by another firm knock. With a deep breath, I open it to find a man in the doorway. He's tall, possibly in his early fifties, with a weary smile and a weathered complexion that speaks of a life lived outdoors. His eyes are sharp and alert.
"Hello," he says, holding out his hand. "My name is Detective Marcus Vaughn."
I resist the urge to take a step back. Detectives don't show up at your door unless something is seriously wrong. Or if they think you've done something wrong.
"What can I do for you?" I ask in what I hope is a casual voice.
"I'm investigating the case of an unidentified woman found near the lakeshore a few months back," he explains. "I'm just following up on a few leads. May I come in?"
My heart beats hard against my ribcage as I step aside to let him enter. Detective Vaughn passes through the opulence of the mansion with a detached curiosity before settling into one of the antique chairs in the drawing room.
"I appreciate your time, miss...?" He trails off, looking at me expectantly.
"Just," I say, forcing a smile. "Emily Just."
He nods, jotting down my name in a small, weathered notebook. "Miss Just," he repeats. His gaze lifts to meet mine. "I understand you are the home aide for Mrs. Hollingsworth. Is she available for a brief conversation?"
"Actually, Mrs. Hollingsworth is currently resting. She's been feeling a little under the weather recently."
Detective Vaughn nods agreeably. “And how long have you been working for the Hollingsworths, if you don’t mind my asking?"
“Only a few days," I reply, hoping my face doesn't betray the unease churning within me.
“A few days,” he repeats, jotting this down. He seems so relaxed, so companionable. Is that his personality or just a ruse to get me to lower my guard?
“How do you like it so far?” he asks.
"It's... certainly different," I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm still adjusting."
He nods again—he seems to nod at everything I say, as if to tell me my words are perfectly reasonable. It’s almost as easy talking to him as it is talking to Rich.
“I hope Mrs. Hollingsworth is on the mend?”
I am about to tell him my concerns about the medication, but a warning voice tells me to keep my cards close to the vest, at least until I know exactly why he’s asking these questions. Is he fishing for something in particular or for whatever he can catch?
“She’s a fighter,” I say with a smile, sidestepping the question. Why not turn the spotlight back on him? “This unidentified woman you mentioned—what exactly happened to her?”
The detective blinks at me. His expression is blank, but I get the impression I’ve surprised him. Then he relaxes into an easy smile. “Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
Before I can ask anything else, he rises with a good-natured groan.
“Thank you for humoring me, Ms. Just,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’ll be in touch.” He hands me a business card. "In case you need to contact me for any reason."
I'm not exactly sure what this means, so I just nod and accept the card.
I follow the detective anxiously to the door, unsure what to make of his visit.
“Should I have Mr. or Mrs. Hollingsworth reach out to you?” I ask.
He stops at the door and turns back. “No need,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be back again.” He raps once on the frame of the door, then disappears outside.
CHAPTER TEN
My hands are wrestling one another like snakes as I watch Christopher’s black BMW pull into the driveway.
Do I tell him about Detective Vaughn’s visit?
I bite my lower lip, worrying it between my teeth, as I watch Christopher through the window. His tailored suit is crisp and immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, and his posture straight and confident. He seems so in control, so untouchable in his world of wealth and power. But all it would take is one wrong step, one damaging revelation, to bring his world crashing down.
He leaves the engine running for a moment before finally turning it off and stepping out of the car. As he walks up to the house, he glances up at me and gives a curt nod of acknowledgment. I take a deep breath and start to make my way downstairs.
"Emily," he greets me as I open the door for him.
"Mr. Hollingsworth," I reply, nodding back at him.
He takes a moment to glance around the foyer, his eyes seeming to assess and approve of the pristine order within the mansion. "Is she still by the lake?"
She—no need to use Lauren’s name. The informality feels strange, given what I know of Christopher’s affair.
"No, she went up to rest,” I say. “Another headache.”
Christopher nods, looking distracted. “Just as well. I’m going to need your time—I’ve got work guests arriving in an hour for a business meeting. I’m thinking we’ll eat out on the deck. Lauren's always loved cooking, which is why we've never hired a chef, but given her current condition…"
He sighs and shrugs. "Well, we’ll just have to do the best we can, don't we? Whip up some refreshments, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns and strolls away, pulling out his phone as he goes.
Refreshments? In an hour? I’ve never been much of a cook (I cooked as a kid while my mom worked several jobs, but it was never anything fancy), and besides that, I still hardly know my way around the kitchen.
Then again, it’s not as if he gave me a choice.
I swallow my unease, forcing a nod even though Christopher is no longer looking. I watch him disappear down the grand hallway. The house is silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock in the corner, its rhythm steady and unrelenting.
In the kitchen, I face the daunting task of preparing refreshments fit for Christopher's business partners. I survey the room with a sense of trepidation. Polished granite countertops are lined with state-of-the-art appliances, gleaming under the soft overhead lighting. A pot rack hangs from the ceiling, filled with gleaming stainless steel that's probably never seen use. Even the cutlery seems to taunt me, elegant and unfamiliar in their ornate design.
I quickly pull out cookbooks from the built-in shelves, fumbling through pages for finger food recipes that seem manageable and doable in an hour. Mini quiches, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate-dipped strawberries—all simple yet refined choices befitting the Hollingsworth household.
As I begin gathering ingredients and laying them out on the counter, I feel a simmer of resentment toward Christopher. I’m Lauren’s aide, after all, not a maid or a cook.
But then I think about saving up for my master’s degree, and I know that one stray word to Christopher could plunge my plans into uncertainty. Better to swallow my pride and do what must be done.
Pulling the apron from a hook on the wall, I tie it around my waist, take a deep breath, and plunge into the task at hand.
Under the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of that ever-present clock, I work methodically. Milk and eggs whisked into a froth, cucumbers sliced thin as paper, strawberries dipped delicately in dark chocolate—every dish requires precision and focus. There’s something soothing in this simple labor, a distraction from my anxiety-ridden thoughts.
Despite my fear of making a fool of myself, I get into a rhythm and soon have a spread that looks surprisingly professional. Dainty sandwiches, delicate pastries, plump berries glistening under a shell of chocolate, all carefully arranged on silver trays.
I guess those days cooking while my mom was at work did pay off, after all.
Christopher enters the kitchen just as I'm placing the last sandwich on a tray. He glances at the spread with an approving nod. "Well done, Emily," he says before his gaze falls on me, pausing for a moment at the smudge of flour on my cheek. His lips quirk upwards in a half-smile. "I wasn't aware culinary arts were part of your skill set."
I'm unsure how to respond. Is he mocking me or genuinely complimenting me? I opt for a middle-of-the-road reply. "It's been a while, but I seem to have managed."
He chuckles lightly, an unexpected and disarmingly charming sound. But just as quickly, his easy demeanor evaporates, replaced by the professional façade I'm becoming familiar with. "Let's get these outside, then.”
As I follow him out onto the deck, which overlooks the vast expanse of the lake shimmering under the dying sunlight, I can't help but wonder how the Hollingsworths got accustomed to such opulence. The view is breathtaking: endless changing colors playing on the water's surface, wildlife darting in and out of sight, the tranquil silence of nature punctuated only by the occasional bird's call. It's a different world, one that is both beautiful and alien to me.
Christopher is already arranging chairs around a glass table, his actions smooth and efficient. I place the trays of food down carefully, my heart racing as Christopher's gaze flicks over them. He nods approvingly, and I let out a breath.
"Thank you, Emily," he says tersely. "That'll be all." I get the distinct impression that he doesn't care for me to be seen by his guests, and that's just fine with me. I dip my head and hurry inside, making my way to the restroom.
As I clean up, I gaze in the mirror and remind myself that this isn’t a forever job. A few months of this, and I’ll be well on my way toward paying for that master’s degree. I just need to be patient for a while longer. It will all be worth it in the end.
Fortified by this reminder, I make my way out of the restroom, intending to clean up the kitchen. As I round the corner, however, I nearly collide with a young man in a tailored suit that clings to his athletic frame, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. I haven't seen him before—a likely friend or business associate of Christopher's, I surmise.
"Whoa there," he says, steadying me with a firm hand on my arm. His voice is deep and smooth, with a hint of amusement. "In a hurry?"
"I didn't see you there," I mutter, trying to step back from him, but his grip holds me in place. His eyes are sea-green, piercing and a little unsettling as they study me.
"I see," he replies, finally releasing me. "You must be Emily."
I swallow hard. "Yes." Why does he know my name? Is he someone important?
"The new aide?" His smile is disarming. "Christopher mentioned you at dinner last night."
An uncomfortable realization washes over me. He talked about me? What could Christopher have possibly said?
"Only good things, of course,” he adds, as if reading my mind. The man's voice is light, playful. I nod, unsure if I should feel relieved or worried.
He extends his hand. "I'm Aiden, by the way. Aiden Bell. Christopher and I work together.”
We shake hands, and I find myself staring into those sea-green eyes again, noticing now the hint of curiosity in them. I get the impression those eyes don't miss much.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Silence surrounds us, and I wait for him to break off the conversation so he can return to the business meeting, but instead he gestures at a portrait of Christopher on the wall.
“I don’t think I could abide seeing my own face staring at me like that,” he says. “Could you?”
I glance at the portrait, taking in Christopher's meticulously groomed appearance, the confident gleam in his eyes. The artist captured him perfectly—the charming businessman with a veneer of humility, gently holding a blueprint of one of his real estate projects. In real life, his charm is partly genuine and partly manufactured, his humility entirely nonexistent.
"That's... a good question," I say, stalling for time as I grapple with my feelings toward my employer. Could I abide my own painted gaze scrutinizing every movement within these walls? Likely not.
“It’s funny, I don’t see my portrait anywhere, even though his business never would’ve flourished without me.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound; instead there’s a note of resentment.
“You know,” I say, taking the remark at face value, “I actually have almost no idea what he does—other than that he’s in real estate, of course.”
“Oh, it’s far less glamorous than he’d like the world to believe. He buys up old, decrepit buildings, slaps a fresh coat of paint on them, and sells them for twice the price.” Aiden's voice is cool and matter of fact, but I detect an undercurrent of bitterness.
"Sounds lucrative," I reply cautiously.
Aiden chuckles. "That’s one way to put it. But it's not about money for Christopher. It's about power."
“Power?” I ask, as if I don’t understand. I want to keep him talking—he knows things about Christopher, things I couldn’t otherwise learn.
Aiden glances both ways down the hall before leaning close to me. “The truth is this whole real estate empire he’s built—it’s just a house of cards. If I said the right thing to the right people—”
“Ah, there you are,” a voice behind us says, and we both turn to see Christopher striding toward us, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a strained smile on his face. "Aiden, I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."
Aiden straightens up and steps back, his casual demeanor snapping back into place as if it had never been disturbed. "Just introducing myself to Emily," he says with a shrug.
Christopher's gaze flicks to me then, the intensity in his eyes making me want to look away. But I force myself to meet his gaze head-on. “The food is a big hit,” he says. “If this job doesn’t work out for you, you should consider catering.”
If this job doesn’t work out for you—is that a veiled threat?
"Come, Aiden," Christopher says, taking the younger man's arm. "I was just telling the others about the time we were in the Gulf of Mexico, and that shark leaped into the boat…"
The two men stride off down the hallway, leaving me alone with the echo of Aiden’s words.
Leaving me to wonder what kind of secret he knows that could destroy Christopher’s business.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
That night, as I’m cleaning up in the kitchen, I think about Aiden’s words.
The truth is, I’m not particularly interested in what secret might take down Christopher’s company. I am, however, interested in how he treats Lauren, specifically whether he’s had anything to do with the combination of medications she’s on. It reminds me too much of my last job, where I suspected the husband of doping his agoraphobic wife to keep her under his thumb.
Then again, I eventually discovered that the husband was not in fact responsible, but rather a coworker and close friend of his. Could the same thing be happening here?
As I finish up in the kitchen, I realize I’m far too restless to go to sleep. Instead I decide to take a walk along the edge of the lake. The moon is out, bathing the world in a soft gray, and I think the solitude will be good for me, a chance to clear my head.
The night is still as I step onto the gravel path that winds around the lake. Crickets chirp, and the breeze whistles past my ears, carrying with it the smell of water and wet earth. The mansion looms behind me, its windows glowing in the moonlight. As I pass by, I can't help but feel its watchful gaze upon me, like a silent sentinel keeping secrets.
Leaving the mansion behind, I find myself drawn to the lakeside. The water's surface is like a rippled mirror, reflecting the moonlight in eerie distortions that dance and flicker with each gentle wave. My feet stop at the edge of the lake, my eyes fixed on the unnerving beauty of it all. It's an unsettling kind of serenity, beautiful but also dark and mysterious, much like the Hollingsworths themselves.
I think of Lauren’s words about knowing Christopher as children, and how it seemed fated they would be together. And yet, they seem so unhappy now—no, unhappy isn’t the right word. Maybe they’re happy in their own little worlds, but it’s not a shared happiness. They are roommates, not lovers. I can’t recall seeing one instance of physical contact between them since I arrived.
