‘It’s none of your business what I do with my life,’ he spat back, like he was still a rebellious American teenager, and not almost twenty-three years old. She looked back at him. Her beautiful boy. The blond toddler had grown into something unrecognizable. He stood in front of her, just under six feet tall, muscular from working out at the gym. He liked to work with his hands, but as far as she knew, he wasn’t using them for anything worthwhile. He hadn’t wanted to learn any of the trades that she suggested, that were in demand, so that he could make an honest living. She thought he could at least learn to drywall, but he was too lazy to work. He seemed content to live under her roof and eat her food. He occasionally got work loading and unloading trucks, when he needed cash and she wouldn’t give him any.
He was still so young. Like a child. He didn’t know anything about life. He was so easily led by others. She feared for him.
Lately he had begun to badger her. ‘These houses you clean for rich people. They must have lots of nice things, right?’ he said one night.
She didn’t answer. She ignored him, continued to make their supper of cabbage rolls, standing at the stove, stirring, wanting to avoid a confrontation.
‘They wouldn’t even miss it if you took something, wouldthey? Something small, that they wouldn’t notice? And I could sell it. I’d split the money with you. They have too much already, and we have nothing.’
She lost her patience and turned to him. ‘You are a stupid, lazy boy. I am not stealing from my employers. Of course they will notice if something is missing! And I will be fired first thing, because who else would have taken it? They are not stupid, like you!’
‘I’m not stupid!’ he yelled back, enraged.
She waited for them both to calm down. She wasn’t going to become a common thief for him.
Now, she reflects unhappily on all this as she polishes the faucet in the Westcotts’ en suite bathroom. She stops for a moment and studies herself in the large mirror. She doesn’t look older than her age, despite her hardships and worries. She turns away from the mirror thinking that there has to be more to life than cleaning rich people’s houses, then spending the evenings exhausted on her sagging couch, watching the reality TV shows that she loves– likeReal HousewivesandSelling Manhattan. She still has some life to live. She feels like it’s slipping away from her though.
She hears the doorbell chime. Another delivery. There are a lot of those– these people are always shopping, and they arrange deliveries for Wednesday, when she is there. Nadya mutters as she descends the staircase at the extra steps these deliveries require her to make. They never seem to arrive when she is on the main floor. Why is that?
She looks out the glass before opening the door and sees a man standing there, waiting quietly. He’s in his thirties, presentable, dressed in a suit. He has no package, and he doesn’tlook like a delivery man. She hesitates, then opens the door a crack. ‘Yes?’ she says.
The man holds up a badge and says pleasantly, ‘I’m Special Agent Paul Ramirez, with the US Coast Guard Investigative Service. May I come in?’
‘They’re not home right now,’ she says. ‘They’re at work. I’m the cleaning lady.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘It’s you I’d like to speak to.’
At this she feels herself become nervous. She hasn’t done anything wrong, but she is nervous nonetheless. This is about the terrible sailing accident last weekend. Why does he want to talk to her?
‘Please open the door,’ he says in a firm voice.
She does, and lets him in.
‘Perhaps we could sit down?’ he suggests, as she stands there in the foyer looking at him.
‘Okay,’ she agrees, and she awkwardly leads him into the front room. He chooses the leather armchair as if he’s already familiar with it. She sits down on the edge of the sofa, wondering if she should call her employers.
He smiles at her, as if sensing her doubt. ‘It’s okay, there is nothing to worry about,’ he says kindly. ‘I’m investigating the sailing accident that claimed Greg Westcott’s life. I’ve already spoken to Mr and Mrs Westcott. I’m just following up. I want to be able to close the case.’
She feels reassured, although she can’t imagine what he could have to follow up with her. She’d learned about the accident in the news. It was rather shocking. ‘Okay.’
‘Your name?’
‘Nadya Sokolov.’ She spells it for him.
‘Have you worked for the Westcotts long?’ he asks.
‘About three years.’ She watches him write that down.
For some reason, she thinks of her son and his suggestion that she steal from this house, and she flushes guiltily. He seems to notice, and she looks away.
‘On Wednesdays,’ he says.
‘Yes, on Wednesdays, when they’re both at work. Sometimes I come in extra days, around holidays, or if they are planning to entertain. If I have time.’
He nods. ‘Have you ever overheard Mr and Mrs Westcott discussing their financial situation?’
She furrows her brows. ‘I’m not here when they are home. They prefer it that way. I do too. I hear nothing.’