Chapter Eight
Mirabel
I stare at my wardrobe, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest.
The interview is in three hours and nothing fits right. I’ve gained weight since Dad’s diagnosis—stress eating takeout during late nights researching treatments I can’t afford.
The black dress from the wedding disaster hangs at the far end of my closet, mocking me.
The tear has been mended with tiny, careful stitches, but I know it’s still too tight.
And even if it weren’t, I can’t wear it without seeing his face in my mind—those ice-blue eyes flicking down for just a moment when the fabric split.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty room.
I pull out a white blouse and a black pencil skirt I wore to my college graduation. The skirt zips, but just barely, digging into my waist. The blouse strains across my chest, a button threatening to pop. It’ll have to do.
My phone buzzes with a text from Diane: Break a leg today. That castle better have gold-plated toilets for 5k a month.
I text back quickly: If it doesn’t, I’ll scrub them until they shine like gold anyway.
She sends back a laughing emoji, and I fight down a twist of anxiety. Diane’s the only one I’ve told about this job prospect. The fear of jinxing this opportunity has kept my mouth shut. Five thousand dollars a month. The difference between watching my father die and giving him a fighting chance.
I pull my hair back into a tight bun and apply makeup with care. Foundation to hide the shadows under my eyes. Concealer over the spots that have appeared since sleep became a luxury. Blush to fake the appearance of health. Mascara. Lip gloss.
The results are passable, but not great. I feel like crap; not surprisingly that I look the same way. I turn away from my reflection. No time to dwell on that now.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a reminder from my calendar: Dad - Chemo - Tomorrow 9 a.m.
Another wave of panic threatens to pull me under. If I get this job, I’ll need to move into Ashwater Heights. I’ll be two hours away from him. Who will drive him to appointments? Who will sit with him after, when the nausea hits?
One problem at a time, Mirabel.
The taxi I ordered arrives fifteen minutes early, the driver texting that he’s downstairs. I grab my purse, a folder with extra copies of my CV, and the silk scarf from the wedding—just in case I need to camouflage the straining buttons on my blouse.
I pause at the door, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what I’m doing. Leaving everything I know. Planning on moving to a remote estate. Working for a complete stranger.
Get the job first, Mirabel.
For Dad.
This is for Dad.
I lock the apartment and head downstairs.
Inside the cab, the city gives way to suburbs, then to countryside, then to deep forest that closes over the road like a canopy. My stomach knots with each mile. The taxi driver hasn’t spoken since we left, and the silence amplifies my thoughts.
The trees grow denser, pressing closer to the narrow road. Shadows dance across the windshield, playing tricks with my vision. I find myself scanning the forest edges, heart jumping whenever something moves between the trees.
“How much farther?” I ask the driver.
He shrugs. “GPS says twenty minutes. No signal out here, though.”
No signal. Isolated. The winding road reminds me of another forest. Another road. Six years ago.
Debra.
Just thinking her name makes my throat tighten. I close my eyes, but it’s no escape—the memories are waiting for me in the darkness.
The school trip to the lake house. Our rare, explosive fight over something so trivial I can’t even remember what started it. Debra, tears streaming down her face, storming out into the trees surrounding the property.
“I need space, Mira,” she’d snapped. “Not everything has to be about you.”
I should have followed her immediately. Should have known something was wrong when she didn’t return for dinner. But I was eighteen and stubborn and angry, and I’d thought letting her cool off was the right move.
By the time we organized a search party, the sun was setting. By midnight, the police had arrived. By dawn, helicopters were sweeping the forest.
But they never found her. No body. No trace. Nothing except a single earring—the tiny silver star she always wore—lying in the dirt near a tire track half a mile from where she’d entered the woods.
And the memory of a man I glimpsed just once through the trees. Tall. Bald. Covered in tattoos that marked him as someone dangerous.
The police had questions about him, but I had no answers. Just the image burned into my brain—massive shoulders, intricate ink etched up his scalp and neck, moving through the forest like he belonged there.
For weeks afterward, I’d wake up certain I’d heard Debra calling my name. For months, I’d think I saw her in crowds, only to find a stranger when I caught up. For years, I jumped at every phone call, every doorbell, convinced it might be her.
Six years, and the wound is still raw.
The taxi turns onto a narrower road, unmarked except for a discreet sign: Private Property. My hands turn clammy. We’re close.
The trees continue another half mile before they finally release us. The road widens, becomes smooth asphalt instead of cracked pavement. Manicured lawns sweep away on either side, dotted with sculptures—abstract metal pieces that probably cost more than my flat.
Then the house appears.
My lungs seize.
The driver whistles low. “That’s not a house, that’s a freaking fortress.”
He’s not wrong.
Ashwater Heights sprawls across the hilltop like something that escaped from a different century.
Three stories of gleaming white stone, symmetrical wings extending from a central section crowned with what looks like a glass conservatory.
Dozens of windows catch the afternoon light, making the entire structure seem to glow.
Columns frame the entrance—proper Greek revival columns that belong on a museum, not a private home.
This is where I’m supposed to work?
The scale is overwhelming. I count at least twenty windows on the front facade alone, each one taller than I am.
Balconies jut from the second floor, their wrought-iron railings intricate with scrollwork.
Ivy climbs one entire wing, dark green against white stone, controlled and deliberate rather than wild.
The driveway curves past a small gatehouse built from the same white stone. A man in a dark suit stands outside, speaking into a radio. His jacket shifts as he moves, revealing the outline of something at his hip.
A gun.
My mouth goes bone-dry.
“You sure this is the place?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Looks like a mob boss lives here.”
The casual comment makes me blink. I nod in response, then reach for my purse, but my fingers have gone numb.
“Could you wait here for me?” I ask, needing the security of knowing I can get away fast if I need to. When he doesn’t answer immediately, I add, “I’ll pay extra for the time you spend here.” It’s easy to be free with cash when you know someone else is paying.
“Sure,” he says, eventually, turning the key in the ignition and switching the car off. “Good luck,” he adds as I climb out. He sounds sincere. Like he knows I’ll need it.
The car has stopped at the base of wide stone steps that lead to massive oak doors. Double doors, each one easily ten feet tall, carved with what looks like some kind of family crest. I stand frozen, my legs suddenly wooden.
Above me, the house looms. Up close, it’s even more imposing—I can see security cameras positioned at intervals along the roofline, their lenses like black eyes. Motion sensors mounted near the gutters. Windows that might be bulletproof, given how thick the glass appears.
What kind of person needs this level of security?
The grounds stretch in every direction, perfectly maintained.
To my left, I spot what looks like a hedge maze.
To my right, a fountain shoots water twenty feet into the air, the spray catching rainbows in the sunlight.
In the distance, past rolling lawns, I can just make out the edge of the forest we drove through.
Completely isolated. Miles from anywhere.
Five thousand a month.
For Dad.
You can do this, girl.
I straighten my shoulders and climb the steps. Ten steps. Fifteen. The doors grow larger with each one.
I’m three steps from the top when the right door swings inward.
An older woman stands in the entrance, backlit by the interior.
Silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a black dress with a white apron that looks like it was starched within an inch of its life.
Her face is lined, her eyes sharp and assessing as they sweep over me—head to toe, lingering on my straining blouse, my too-tight skirt.
Finding me wanting.
“Good day. I am Anfisa, the head housekeeper. You are Miss McLeod?” Her accent is thick, Eastern European. Russian, I think.
“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse. I clear my throat. “Yes, I’m Mirabel McLeod. I have an interview for the housekeeping position.”
Except even as I say the words, I wonder if I’m about to make a terrible mistake.