Chapter 79: Marisol the new maid

Rebecca didn’t last five minutes in the annex.

Something in the air there felt wrong, too cold, too familiar. She couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t try.

She returned to the mansion, wordless, brushing past Elliott and Clara in the hallway.

“I’m sleeping here,” she muttered, not quite looking at them. “Not in that other place.”

Clara rolled her eyes but forced a polite smile. Elliott stepped forward.

“Mom, you sure?”

She didn’t answer—just climbed the stairs, slow but steady. At the landing she hesitated, then opened the first door on the right—Alina’s old room.

She closed it behind her without another word.

Later that night

Elliott and Clara lay tangled in bed, their laughter hushed against pillows.

They moved with soft restraint, careful not to wake Rebecca. Clara’s fingers curled in his hair, her breath warm against his ear. When they finally collapsed together, content and breathless, she traced lazy patterns across his chest.

“This place…” she whispered, staring up at the carved ceiling. “We could make it something real. Alive again.”

Elliott smiled. “I like hearing you say we.”

“We’re going to need people,” she continued. “Noise. Staff. I’m meeting a maid candidate tomorrow. Girl named Marisol. Craigslist find—looks normal enough.”

He chuckled. “Normal might be refreshing.”

She kissed him once more. “Get used to change. I want to fill this place.”

He held her close. “Then we will.”

Morning

Rebecca knelt in the front veranda, gloved hands deep in potting soil. She arranged flowers with precise care, as though preparing a ritual.

The crunch of tires on gravel made her pause.

A yellow taxi rolled through the gate and stopped.

A woman stepped out.

She was modestly dressed in a long cream skirt, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, face clean of makeup. She paused at the threshold, staring up at the looming stone and glass façade.

A flicker of nerves crossed her face.

Then she spoke tentatively toward the monitor by the door.

“Uh—hi. I’m here to see Clara? Madam Clara? For the maid job?”

Silence.

Then Craig’s voice crackled from the speaker. “Identity unregistered. Please wait.”

Before she could respond, the door clicked open on its own.

Marisol flinched—but gathered herself, stepping inside as a cool breeze rushed past her, as though the house exhaled.

“...Okay,” she murmured. “Creepy.”

She moved deeper into the foyer, eyes wide. “This place is huge,” she whispered to herself.

From her purse she withdrew a folded note reading it under her breath, as if rehearsing a script.

She was still mumbling when a voice rang out.

“Young lady,” Rebecca called from across the hall, wiping soil from her gloves. “How can I help you?”

Marisol straightened the straps of her worn canvas bag and offered a polite smile.

“I’m here for Madam Clara. The job interview.”

Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. She looked Marisol over—top to bottom, slow and unapologetic.

“At least you know how to dress decently,” she said at last. “Most young girls these days don’t understand modesty.”

Marisol’s smile tightened, but she nodded respectfully.

“Thank you.”

Before Rebecca could question further, Clara appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh! The maid is here!” she called lightly as she descended. “Come in, come in.”

Marisol followed her into the living room. Rebecca remained by the doorway, watching them with narrowed eyes.

“So,” Clara said, folding her arms casually, “you’ve done this before?”

Marisol froze. “Done… what?”

“Cleaning,” Clara prompted with a laugh. “I’m not hiring you as a pianist.”

“Oh—yes. Yes! I’ve cleaned. And babysat. Twice.” She swallowed. “I’m good with children. And kitchens.”

“Good,” Clara said, waving dismissively. “Leave your bag here. I’ll show you around.”

She led Marisol into the massive kitchen, opening drawers and flicking switches as though she’d lived there for years instead of hours.

“This is the stove. Or—well. Craig?”

“Yes, Madam Clara,” came the disembodied voice.

Marisol jumped.

Clara smirked. “We have an AI. He knows this house better than any of us. Craig, show Marisol how to use the stove.”

The stovetop lit up automatically. Burners clicked.

“Temperature settings can be controlled manually or by voice,” Craig recited.

“Actually,” Clara cut in, “why don’t you just give her the full tour?”

“Acknowledged.”

Clara flashed Marisol a confident smile and strolled back toward the stairs. Marisol followed, listening as Craig’s calm voice narrated hallway dimensions and emergency exits.

She was halfway down the grand hall when movement caught her eye.

At the top of the staircase stood Elliott shirtless, half-awake, hair mussed. He rubbed his eyes, unaware of the effect he had simply by existing.

Marisol froze.

Craig continued speaking, but she didn’t hear a word.

Clara reached him first, laughing as she kissed him on the cheek. “Morning, handsome. Yes, she’s the maid.”

Craig’s voice cut through the moment with mechanical precision.

“This is Mister Elliott. Owner of the estate.”

Marisol snapped her gaze down, cheeks flushed. “Good morning.”

Elliott smiled awkwardly. “Uh. Yeah welcome.”

Craig resumed the tour, leading her down a corridor and through a side door.

“To the annex,” Clara called from above. “That’ll be your room. For now.”

Marisol entered the smaller house next door. It smelled of lavender and dust.

Craig’s voice lowered.

“This was Erika’s home. She lived here alone.”

A chill ran through Marisol.

The monitor in the hallway flickered to life. Craig’s camera lens zoomed slightly, as though studying her.

“Step closer.”

She hesitated.

“Closer.”

She obeyed.

On the screen, static flickered then settled again.

“A sweet face like yours won’t survive here.”

Marisol’s breath caught.

Before she could move, the annex door opened.

Clara leaned against the frame, smiling as though nothing were wrong.

“All done? Good.” She gestured toward the backyard. “Come on. I’ll show you the pool and your first job.”