Page 68 of The Maid's Secret

I held it in my lap, not caring if the butter stained my new skirt. “Shall we watch the film?” I asked as I settled into my seat.

“Not much else we can do with an entire family of proles watching,” he replied.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, venturing to take his hand, which he pulled away. “Really, my apologies,” I added. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew I didn’t mean them, for what I felt in my heart and soul was pure and utter relief.

—

Chapter 19

I run. I run as fast as I can, leaving the alleyway and racing home. I arrive in record time, bounding up the stairs to our apartment and turning the key in our door. Juan is pacing in the entrance, his eyes wide, phone in hand.

“Madre mía,”he exclaims the second I enter. He hugs me so tight I can feel his heart pounding in his chest. “I called you and you didn’t answer. Are you okay?” he asks.

I realize then that Juan has been as worried about the death threat as I’ve been. He’s just been hiding it to make me feel safer.

“I’m fine,” I say between gasps for breath. “I’m okay.”

“Where were you?” he asks. “I came home expecting you to be here, and you weren’t. Then you didn’t answer your phone. I was so scared.” He takes me by the hand and leads me to Gran’s threadbare sofa. He puts both of his palms on my cheeks. “I don’t know what I would do if…if something ever—”

“Juan, I’m okay,” I say. “But I have some things to tell you.”

I recount the whole story about my walk home—how a black carsidled up to me, blocking me in an alley, how I thought I was going todie.

“We need to call the police—now!” he says, interrupting.

“Wait,” I say. “There’s more.” I tell him how my mother came out of the car and all the things she told me—how the egg was stolen by a gang of hired men who don’t want it found, how it once belonged to Gran, and how, worst of all, not only did my mother ask me for money but her parting words to me were a threat.

As I deluge Juan with the shocking details, his phone on the coffee table rings.

“It’s Mr.Preston,” he says. “I left him a panicked message.”

“Take the call. Tell him I’m okay,” I say.

Juan answers and relates what happened to me. Then he ends the call. “He’s on his way here. He wants to see you.”

“Now?” I say.

“Yes now,” Juan replies.

In the time it takes for me to answer Juan’s copious questions and for Juan to brew tea and put together a plate of hors d’oeuvres à la Juan, there’s a knock on the door. I open it, expecting only my gran-dad but am greeted by a twofer that includes a very anxious-looking Angela.

“Angela? Why are you here?” I ask.

“You went missing, Molly. Juan called Mr.Preston. Mr.Preston called me. Did you really think we wouldn’t come running?”

Angela and Mr.Preston launch themselves at me. They’re hugging me so tight my spleen is about to burst.

“I’m okay,” I squeak from the middle of the sandwich, “or at least I was until a second ago.”

Reluctantly they release me.

“Molly,” Angela says, “there are days when you test my patience, but I can’t stand the thought of a world without you in it.”

“My thoughts exactly,” says my gran-dad as he sets a bag on the floor.

Mr.Preston and Angela remove their shoes, and because they know me so well, they wipe the bottoms and place them neatly in our front closet. It’s then I notice Gran-dad’s hands are shaking.

“You can relax. I’m fine. Please, sit.”