Janine, another housekeeper at the mansion, cornered me by the supply closet.
“Heard you brought a homeless woman home,” she sneered. “Can barely feed your own kids, and now you’re collecting strays?”
I said nothing. I’d learned long ago that defending kindness to cruel people was a waste of breath.
Margaret stayed three days. She helped fold laundry, told my kids old Christmas stories, and cried quietly when she thought no one was looking. On the fourth morning, she hugged me tightly and said she needed to leave.
“I’ll never forget what you did,” she whispered.
I watched her walk away, my chest aching with worry.
Three days later, I was locking the door to head to work when a deep honking sound shattered the quiet street.
A black luxury SUV sat in front of my house. Polished. Expensive. Completely out of place.
My stomach dropped.
A man in a tailored suit stepped out. His expression was sharp, assessing. He walked straight up to me.
“Are you Kate?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said cautiously, gripping my keys.
“I’m looking for the woman who stayed here. Margaret.”
My heart raced.
“Is she okay?”
