Page 25 of Cruel Obsession

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Breathe.

This is a long shot. A Hail Mary. The kind of thing that only works in movies where the scrappy underdog gets a miracle handed to them wrapped in a bow.

But miracles don’t happen to people like me.

Or maybe they do. Because three hours later, my phone buzzes.

I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to sleep even though my brain won’t shut off.

The notification lights up the screen.

New Email.

RE: Housekeeper Position

I sit up so fast the room spins. Fumble for my phone. Open the email.

Dear Ms. McLeod,

Thank you for your application. We were impressed by your qualifications and would like to invite you for an interview at Ashwater Heights.

Interview Date: Thursday this week. Time: 2:00 PM Location: Ashwater Heights Estate. (location will be sent).

Please note that the estate is located approximately two hours outside the city. Transportation costs to and from the interview will be reimbursed upon arrival.

We look forward to meeting you.

Sincerely, Anfisa Kuznetsova, Head Housekeeper

I read it three times.

Then a fourth.

They want to interview me.

They want to interview me!

The phone nearly slips from my hands.

Thursday. That’s in two days. I have two days to prepare—to figure out what to wear, what to say, how to convince these people that I’m capable of doing a job I’ve never done before.

But the bigger question scratches at the back of my mind, sharp and insistent.

Transportation costs will be reimbursed.

Which means it’s remote. Far enough that they expect people to hesitate before making the trip.

What kind of place is thisAshwater Heights?

Who the hell lives there?

And why is it so far and remote?

This is fine. Plenty of rich people live in secluded estates. It doesn’t mean anything.

I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again. My mind spins in circles—Dad’s bills, the interview, the impossible salary.

And underneath it all, buried where I don’t want to acknowledge it, is a flicker of something else.


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