Chapter 8 The Room at the End of the Hall
6 Months Later. . .
Bert’s office smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. The kind of place that should’ve been condemned years ago but somehow kept dragging itself forward, like it had too many bills to pay to just die already. The linoleum was peeling, the blinds were crooked, and there was this weird stain on the carpet no one had dared ask about since 2013.
Millie sat on a cracked vinyl chair that stuck to the backs of her thighs every time she shifted. Next to her, Clara was chewing on the corner of her thumbnail.
Across the desk, Bert looked way too pleased with himself for someone wearing a mustard-stained polo. He slapped a stack of papers onto the desk.
“Now listen, girls,” he said, way too upbeat for the hour. “This is a lucrative opportunity.”
Millie raised an eyebrow. Whenever Bert used words like "lucrative," it usually meant some rich asshole wanted his marble countertops wiped down with unicorn tears for minimum wage.
He pointed at the top sheet with his stubby, ink-smudged finger. “You remember that fancy tower job I sent you to last year, Amelia? A similar kind of deal. Confidentiality agreement, nothing wild.”
The penthouse. Her one-night stand. Millie's stomach twisted.
Clara elbowed her under the table. Millie shot her a look. She grinned.
“This place is in Hillcrest Heights,” Bert said, tapping the paper. “Really exclusive. High-profile owner. Doesn’t want attention, just a clean house. May and Rufus will be on the crew, too.”
Clara leaned in to squint at the address. “Hillcrest Heights? Isn’t that the place with the yards the size of small countries?”
“Yep,” Bert said proudly, like he owned one. “Just a fancy house, nothing you ladies can’t handle. It’s big, sure, but it’s still just a house. Toilets, floors, surfaces—same as anywhere.”
Millie bit the inside of her cheek. Meanwhile, she was living out of a duffel bag and avoiding her mom’s texts like they were debt collectors.
Bert's tone shifted suddenly, serious now. “And listen up—this client doesn’t want their name floating around. The last team I sent in got too comfortable. Took selfies and told their cousin who they were cleaning for. Ended up with a legal mess and me writing apology emails at two in the morning. So. In and out. No phones.”
Millie exhaled slowly, catching Clara’s eyes. They both knew what this meant. “Private” could mean anything. Eccentric. Reclusive. Rich and weird. Or rich and dangerous. With these kinds of gigs, it was usually all of the above.
“Sure,” she said. “We’ll handle it.”
Bert shoved the contracts across the desk. “Again, no phones, no photos, and not a damn word to anyone about what you see in there. Sign on the dotted line.”
Millie scanned the top page. The usual legal stuff—don’t talk, don’t post, don’t breathe too loudly. Violations could lead to “legal action,” “termination,” and some vague “further consequences.”
Still, her eyes snagged on the payment amount. It was... a lot. Enough to catch up on rent. Maybe even cover her mom’s passive-aggressive storage threat.
Clara raised a brow. “This isn’t some celebrity’s place, right?”
Bert snorted, which turned into a wheeze halfway through. “Nothing like that. Just some big-shot business guy. You do the job, you get paid. Easy.”
Millie met Clara’s eyes before they both grabbed the pens. When they were done signing, they were just about to stand when Bert added, “Oh—and I almost forgot. There’s an art room in the house. Leave it alone. Don’t go in, and don’t touch anything. Don’t even breathe in there.”
Millie gave him a look. “Let me guess. That’s where they keep the bodies.”
Bert grinned. “You’re funny, Foster. Now get going.”
And so the four of them—Millie, Clara, May, and Rufus—stood at the edge of the driveway, staring up at the house. It was one of those oversized, modernized Victorians. All stone and steel angles. Brooding.
Millie couldn’t stop staring at it. The place looked expensive and abandoned, like someone built it to show off and then got bored. Big windows, spotless driveway, but everything felt… off.
May hoisted her bag of supplies onto her hip and squinted up at the looming front. “Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”
Rufus didn’t say much. He just checked his phone and kept walking.
Inside, it somehow got weirder. It had that stale, untouched feel. No signs of life, no clutter. Like someone had it built and then forgot to live here.
“I thought this was supposed to be urgent,” Millie said under her breath as she took in the massive foyer. “Looks like no one’s touched this place since a Bush was in office.”
As she wandered through the house, she couldn’t shake it. No mess on the counters. Nothing to prove anyone ever really lived here. Just space. Expensive, echoing space.
“Living room, kitchen, and bathrooms downstairs, ladies?” Rufus asked, already halfway to the supply closet.
Clara gave him a thumbs-up. “Sure. We’ll handle upstairs. Try not to break anything.”
Millie followed Clara up the stairs, her bucket bumping against her leg. The air shifted the second they hit the landing.
She peeled off into the first bedroom and froze a second before stepping inside. The place looked like a hotel ad—sunlight pouring through gauzy curtains, everything color-coordinated and aggressively tasteful. Even the bathroom gleamed like it had never seen actual use.
And every room was the same. Big bed, bigger bathroom, no sign of life. No toothbrush left out. No mismatched socks hiding under the bed. JOver and over again.
By the third room, Millie didn’t feel impressed anymore. Just... bored. Creeped out, almost.
May passed her on the stairs, shaking her head. “Why the hell does every bedroom have TWO bathrooms? What kind of bladder emergency were they planning for?”
“Rich people logic,” Clara called from down the hall. “More places to cry when you realize your money didn’t buy you a soul.”
Millie snorted. She wanted to be amused, but mostly she was tired of wiping down the same untouched surfaces. And then, at the end of the hall, she saw it. The door. Unlike the others, it wasn’t open. It wasn’t labeled. It just sat there, quiet and closed, and…green.
Millie reached for the knob, already knowing she shouldn’t.
The second the door cracked, it poured out like a memory. Oil paint—the smell. Linseed, turpentine, something sharp and nostalgic.
Then she pushed it open, and immediately the air in there was alive. Paint everywhere—on the floors, the walls, and the furniture. An easel stood in the middle, like it was waiting for someone to come back and finish something important.
Brushes, sketchbooks, smudged rags. It was a mess. A beautiful, personal, honest mess.
Millie stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, pulse tapping at her throat. She should’ve shut the door. Walked away. Bert said off-limits, and for once, the man might’ve had a point.
But that room was the first thing in this whole damn house that felt real and lived in.
And against every smarter instinct she had left, she stepped inside.