Page 67 of The Housemaid Is Watching

“Change your shirt,” I tell him.

Enzo is frozen for a moment, but finally, he nods. He runs upstairs to get rid of his bloody shirt. And whatever else he needs to get rid of.

FORTY-THREE

Over the next twenty minutes, more and more police officers arrive at the Lowell household.

We instruct the kids to stay up in their rooms, because we don’t want them to see what’s going on out there. At some point, they are going to find out that our neighbor was murdered, but I want to postpone that as long as possible. I end up making some pizza bagels in the microwave and let them eat them in their rooms.

I watch the spectacle through the window. Suzette comes home about half an hour after the police arrive, and I watch as a man who looks like a detective breaks the news to her. She covers her eyes and starts to sob, although to my eyes, it looks fake.

She’s not at all upset that her husband is dead.

At some point, the police will arrive at our house to ask questions. But it hasn’t happened yet. And when they do, I’m not sure what to tell them.

Enzo and I sit at the kitchen table, staring down at the pizza bagels I made for us. In the best of times, they would be unappetizing. The cheese is unmelted on one side and somehowovercooked on the other side. But even if it were a gourmet meal, I wouldn’t be able to eat one bite of it.

“I don’t understand,” I say to Enzo. “What happened over there? Were you in their house?”

“No!” he cries. “I never went inside. I was outside. Working.”

“And you didn’t hear a thing?”

“No, but you know my equipment is loud. I never hear anything inside the house.”

I look down at Enzo’s hands, clasped together on the kitchen table. “Where is the cut?”

“What?”

“You told me you cut your hand,” I remind him. “That’s why you were bleeding everywhere,remember? So where is it?”

He holds out his left hand. I don’t even see it at first, but when I look closer, I notice the cut on the palm.

I’m just going to say it: there is no way that cut created that much blood.

“Cuts on the hand bleed a lot,” he says defensively. “Lots of blood vessels.”

“It’s not bleeding now.”

“Well, itstopped.”

I don’t know what to say. I want to believe him. I really, really do. Because when I think about Jonathan Lowell lying on the floor of the living room with his throat slashed open, I don’t want to think about the fact that my husband could be responsible for doing something like that.

If he did that, he is a very different person than I thought he was.

Before I can formulate another question, the doorbell rings. Even though we were expecting it, we both jump. Enzo looks terrified as he grabs my arm.

“Millie,” he croaks. “Do not tell them about the blood on my shirt. Okay?”

I shrug off his grip and get out of my seat to answer the door. I have no intention of telling them about his shirt. Wasn’t I the one who told him to change it?

That same detective who broke the news to Suzette is standing at our front door. He’s around forty, with neatly trimmed graying hair, wearing a beige trench coat over a white shirt and dark red tie. I’ve met a lot of detectives over the years, and something in the back of my head tells me not to trust this one. Then again, I feel that way a lot around cops.

“Mrs. Accardi?” The detective’s accent sounds more Queens than Long Island. “I’m Detective Willard. You got a minute?”

I nod wordlessly. “Yes.”

“Can I come in?” Willard asks.