Sierra
LATER THAT DAY IN LOS ANGELES…
I steer the white sedan marked Cleaning Service carefully through the gates of the biggest house on the roster. One false move and I’ll either damage the company’s car, or the expensive landscaping. I can’t afford an accident.
Ordinarily there are two of us, but my usual partner is sick today.
As hourly employees we don’t get paid time off, and Luiza’s immigration status makes her vulnerable to exploitation.
I know she could be fired for missing a day, so I offered to cover for her absence by coming alone.
After all, there’s never anyone home at the Morozov mansion in Beverly Crest, an area tucked away in the Santa Monica Mountains.
Twice a week we come here to vacuum nonexistent dirt from the pristine floors, wipe away invisible dust, and change sheets in the one occupied bedroom.
Getting past security always involves scanning badges and checking with remote guards before I can do my job.
Despite the way this place is locked down like Fort Knox, it’s one of my favorite jobs.
Easy. If I miss a spot, no one ever complains.
The house is a second home for a rich Russian family.
I have no idea where their primary residence is.
A woman named Alisa lives here at least some of the time.
I know this much from the mail I see stacked in the kitchen.
I unhook the vacuum cleaner cord and get to work.
Working alone, it takes longer to scrub all nine bathrooms, even though my effort is perfunctory.
I keep an eye on the time, rushing as much as I can.
This is my last job for the day, and I’d rather not get stuck in traffic at rush hour. I’ve been awake since before dawn.
In the bedroom, I’m cleaning the window when my hand slows to a halt. Wistfully, I peer down into the large pool below.
I would give just about anything to swim in that crystalline blue water. Just once. Sometimes I fantasize about what it would be like to live here. It’s such a beautiful house. Modernist but warm, with gold accents and richly colored furniture. What a shame the place is empty so much of the time.
I step into Alisa’s enormous closet and begin tidying her shoes.
One of the only signs of life is the way her collection of high heels gets thrown about willy-nilly, as if she’d tried them all on and then couldn’t be bothered to put them back.
Today, I slip my foot into one red-soled shoe with a five-inch spike heel and totter upright.
It fits pretty well. Guiltily, I step out, then crouch down looking for its mate.
She has such gorgeous clothes I could scream with envy.
Life is not fair. I know that; I’m not stupid.
I didn’t aspire to clean houses; it was the only work I could get when I desperately needed to support myself and my sister.
Quickly, I finish tidying the shoes, yet I hesitate to look at that lovely pair with the French name I can’t pronounce.
With a sigh, I turn away and run my fingers along the row of hangers to straighten them.
My fingertips stop on a strip of the softest fabric I’ve ever touched in my life.
When I slide the clothes apart to get a closer look, I gasp. I’ve never seen such a beautiful dress. Shimmery red silk, like liquid blood. I pull it out just a little, just far enough to see the full glory—then I immediately put it back and stride away.
There could be cameras.
But who puts security cameras in a closet with no windows?
I turn back to gaze longingly at the silk gown I will never be able to afford.
Who would know if I tried them on? Just one time.
I won’t be caught. There’s no way for a burglar to sneak in, and why would anyone bother?
There are no real valuables—used clothes generally sell for a fraction of their original price.
Besides, you wouldn’t want the security guards ogling the lady of the house, right?
With my heart in my throat, I take the dress off and hold it against my front, half expecting the wail of sirens to signal my arrest.
On me, it would come to about the knee. Before I can really think about it too much—or what the consequences would be if I’m caught—I take off my uniform and pull the red silk dress over my body.
I’m curvier than the mysterious Alisa. Shorter, too.
The zipper doesn’t quite close, which is fine.
If I hear one single sound, I’m going to have to get this thing off me in an instant.
With my heart pounding, I slip my feet into the high heels and wobble to the mirror to examine my reflection.
The woman looking back at me is almost beautiful. Quickly, I take down my ponytail and finger-comb my dark-brown locks into waves. That’s better. Add gold jewelry, and I’d be ready for the Oscars.
A movement behind me sends me whirling around with a shriek of surprise, teetering on the spike heels. My pulse races so fast I nearly pass out—and worse, a hand clamps over my mouth.
“Should’ve picked a white dress, Alisa. Your wedding day has finally arrived,” a man’s voice growls low in my ear.