He closed the door and stood in absolute silence for a long moment. He gave the closet one last, vicious kick. Then he opened the bedroom door and disappeared down the corridor. As soon as I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I slithered out from under the bed, so fast that I bumped my head and scraped my forehead. I shoved the Playboy under his pil ow, gathered up the dirty sheets, and got out of there. Then I went and stood for a while in one of the empty bedrooms, until I had calmed down and pul ed myself together. It wasn’t the coke or the gun or the argument that scared me.
Honestly. It was the combination of al three, how close I came to getting caught, but mostly how nasty Mike had been on the phone. I knew I couldn’t stay upstairs forever, but I didn’t want to go downstairs with those sheets under my arm. In the end I waited about ten minutes, before deciding that it looked more suspicious to be standing there alone in an empty room than it did to get on with my job.
One of the good things about wearing a maid’s uniform is that it makes you almost invisible. You wouldn’t believe the things people have done, right in front of me. Drugs and porn are the least of it.
Husbands smuggling their mistresses into the house; a wife getting it on with her best friend in the pool house. One time this incredibly beautiful woman—you know, the ex-model trophy-wife type—sat for at least half an hour at her kitchen table flicking through a magazine while I cleaned her filthy kitchen. And for the entire time she picked her nose and wiped her finger on the linen tablecloth. I reminded myself of al of this as I went downstairs with the dirty sheets. I’d left the laundry bags in the laundry room and I had to go through the kitchen to get to them. There were two guys in the kitchen as I went through: Tom Spencer, and a shorter dark-haired guy I figured was the angry Mike from upstairs. They were deep in conversation. I ignored them and they ignored me. I went into the laundry room and stuffed the linens into a bag. The door to the kitchen was open and I could hear what they were saying pretty clearly. Mike was trying to convince Tom Spencer to take a trip north with him, to Canada. He was doing a good job of sounding chirpy and lighthearted, but Tom was unenthusiastic. He changed the subject.
“Did you talk to your mom?”
Mike didn’t even hesitate. “Sure. She said to say hi.”
I tied the laundry bag and started back through the kitchen, just as Tom said—“You’re so lucky. I real y envy what you’ve got with your parents.”
Tom turned to look at me as I came into the room, so he didn’t see Mike’s response to his statement. I saw it though. And—I swear I am NOT exaggerating—it was a look of such naked, murderous rage that I actual y took a step back. The look was gone as quickly as it had arrived, disappearing behind a bland smile.
“Did you find everything you need?” Tom was asking me. I guess he must have picked up on some of my reaction to Mike because he gave me this reassuring smile. I mumbled a yes and a thank you and got the hel out of there. I dropped the laundry at the front door and fought the urge to keep walking. I was feeling pretty freaked out by then. But what was I going to do, abandon Marta and walk back to the hotel? I could just see myself explaining to Rosa that I walked out because I overheard a guy having a fight with his mom. So I went back to work, helped Marta vacuum and mop the floors, and we finished early. Tom Spencer came to find me and Marta before we went home, to see how we were doing. He wasn’t checking up on us, I don’t think. Just being friendly. He even offered us coffee. We didn’t accept—offers like that from people like him are not meant to be accepted. Stil , he real y does seem like a nice guy.
It’s not unusual for a nice guy to be friends with an asshole. Hel , sometimes it feels like it’s almost obligatory. But this wasn’t that. This is one person thinking that everything’s rosy while the other carries around some giant secret drama and a whole lot of anger. It’s like Tom is living with an unexploded bomb and he has no clue. I feel guilty that I know this and he doesn’t. Like it’s my responsibility to do something. I keep tel ing myself that the whole situation has nothing to do with me. It’s none of my business. Getting caught up in rich person drama is a recipe for disaster. I need to get on with my summer and forget that today ever happened.
So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Hannah
THREE
MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 2019
Hannah arrived ten minutes early to the Innocence Project the fol owing day and the place was already humming. There was a woman sitting at the reception desk, head bent and fingers busy on a keyboard, and most of the desks in the open-plan area were occupied by students, busy at their own screens. There was a buzz of quiet conversation, a couple of people were on the phone, a few others were wearing headphones to block out the noise.
“Can I help you?” The woman behind reception was in her fifties, blond and very polished, her hair cut in a sleek bob to just below her ears. She was wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater, and a ring on her wedding finger.
Hannah took a step forward. “I’m Hannah Rokeby,” she said. “I met with Professor Parekh . . .”
“Oh yes. Rob told me to expect you.” The woman offered her hand. “Marianne Stephenson. I’m the office manager.”
“Hel o.” Hannah took her hand and they shook, briefly.
“Come on through.” Marianne stood, motioned for Hannah to fol ow, and wove her way through the cubicles to an unoccupied desk at the back of the room. “We thought we’d put you here, to begin with.” A girl sitting at the neighboring desk looked up at their arrival and Marianne introduced her. “This is Rachel Mears. Rachel is back with us for a second year, so she knows her way around the system. Rob asked Rachel to show you the ropes.”
Hannah smiled at Rachel, who smiled briefly in return. She was a rather severe-looking girl with intense eyes. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight ponytail.
“Thanks so much, Rachel,” Hannah said. “I’l try not to take up too much of your time.”
Rachel shrugged. “It’s real y not a problem. We’re al here to help.”
“Great,” said Marianne briskly. “I’l let you get started.”
Hannah took her backpack off and slid into her chair.
“Let’s get you logged in,” Rachel said. She leaned across Hannah’s desk and switched the computer on. “Do you have your student ID? You just need your name and ID number to set up access, and then you create a password.”
Hannah leaned down and fished her new ID card from her backpack. She handed it to Rachel.
“How did you manage to get a decent photo?” Rachel asked. “I swear I’ve never seen a good one on a UVA ID.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
They waited for the computer to boot up.
“Okay,” Rachel said. “So you’re going to be working on assessing the applications that come in from prisoners. You know our criteria for accepting an application?”
“I think so.”
Rachel counted the criteria off on one hand. “The inmate must have been convicted of a crime in Virginia. The conviction must be final, meaning that no further criminal proceedings or appeals are ongoing, and lastly the inmate must be claiming to be actual y innocent of the crime for which he or she was convicted, and by that I mean factual y innocent, not trying to get off on a technicality.”