“That part is what people whisper about, because some left crying, some were fired, and one even claimed she heard a child singing behind a locked door,” she revealed.
Maya opened her eyes.
“A child?”
“Grief has many voices, and not all of them are actual ghosts,” Catherine said cryptically.
Maya said nothing, and her grandmother leaned closer.
“Do you want to go back there?” Catherine asked.
Maya thought of the medicine bottles on the kitchen shelf, the overdue rent notice folded under a magnet on the refrigerator, and her grandmother’s breath catching in her throat at night. Then she thought of the wooden rabbit and the broken man who held it.
“Yes, I am going back,” Maya said.
The next morning, Mrs. Gordon looked surprised to see her standing at the door.
“You returned,” Mrs. Gordon noted.
“I was scheduled to be here,” Maya replied.
“Most people would not have returned,” Mrs. Gordon said.
“I need the job,” Maya stated.
Mrs. Gordon studied her face.
“Need is not the same as endurance,” she said.
“No, but it certainly teaches it,” Maya replied.
From that day on, Arthur watched her constantly, and Maya felt it even when he said nothing. His eyes followed her when she crossed the foyer with fresh towels, and he noticed whether she paused near the study or looked at the locked door. He noticed whether she touched anything that did not belong to her.
So Maya did her work and only her work, polishing the dining table until the dark wood reflected the ceiling like a mirror. She aired out rooms no one entered, she repaired a loose button on a guest cushion because she could not bear seeing it hang by a thread, and she found old water stains on the piano and removed them with patient hands. She did not smile too much, she did not ask questions, but she listened to the house.
By the end of the week, she knew which staircase creaked on the fifth step, she knew Mr. Penhaligon slept poorly because his bedroom lamp stayed on past midnight, and she knew he hated lilies because every arrangement containing them disappeared by afternoon. She knew someone still ordered a small carton of chocolate milk every Tuesday, even though no one drank it.
On Friday evening, rain began to fall against the tall windows like nervous fingers tapping for entry. Maya was in the laundry room folding towels when the lights flickered once, then again, and a second later, the entire mansion went dark. Somewhere upstairs, something crashed to the floor.
Mrs. Gordon called from the corridor, “Stay where you are,” but then Maya heard another sound, a low, strangled gasp coming from the direction of Arthur’s study.
She moved before she could even think. The study door was ajar, and inside, Arthur stood beside his desk, one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed to his chest, with papers scattered across the floor and a glass shattered near his feet.
“Mr. Penhaligon?” Maya cried out.
“Get out of here,” he rasped.
“You are hurt,” she said, stepping forward.
“I said get out,” he yelled.
