Maid by Mistake

by Miley Maine

  Now I was back home in Pine Hills, and I was living in my grandparents’ farm house. My father had passed away, my mother was happy with her patio home, and my sister wasn’t interested in home renovations.

  I planned to do some home improvement — pulling out the carpet, opening up the rooms, and redoing the bathrooms.

  I’d learned those skills from my father and grandfather when I was still a teenager. Repairing the family home would give me something constructive to do.

  And it would get my mother and sister off my back. They were scared that if I didn’t stay busy, I’d lose my mind.

  Maybe they were right.

  For the first month that I’d been back in Pine Hills, I’d sat and stared at the walls. People had brought me food. They’d wanted to chat too, but I’d merely thanked them and eventually they’d gotten the hint. They probably assumed I was far more injured than I was.

  I had been injured -- shot right in the shoulder. But I could have gone back to my unit with the SEALs, after some intense therapy. But I’d spent over a decade going overseas. I wanted to spend some time actually living.

  Before I could even get inside the door of the hardware store, I heard tires squeal. I jumped as a car horn honked.

  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of metal crashing into metal.

  For a second I was back in Afghanistan with an explosive ripping through our convoy.

  No. I was home. In Missouri.

  I shook myself out of it. A fender bender on Main Street really sounded nothing like an explosion or the sound of gunfire. God knows I’ve done enough therapy to try and control the flashbacks. And it had mostly worked. The same could not be said about the nightmares, but that was one reason I was planning on adopting a dog.

  The county animal rescue group had a few new dogs that had been surrendered. Some of them were almost full-blooded Labs. I figured a big yellow Labrador Retriever would at least keep me company, even if he did nothing for the actual nightmares.

  I blinked a few times and went to help whoever just crashed their cars. Thankfully this time there were no teenagers involved. So there were no calls to make to concerned parents. The culprits were both middle-aged people who looked pretty embarrassed to have bumped their cars into each other in the busiest part of town.

  The woman, who I vaguely remembered from my childhood, was cradling her left arm. I was pretty sure she was my first grade teacher but some of my memories were more hazy than others now. I went to help her first, and I did my best to remember field medicine. I asked her a few questions and checked out her arm, realizing that her wrist was probably broken.

  I got a bystander to take her to the local clinic. The man involved in the accident insisted he was fine, but I wasn’t taking no for an answer. He’d probably hit his head, and I wasn’t going to let him go home without a check up. While I was helping them, the sheriff had arrived, and was walking around taking photos of the wreck.

  A crowd had gathered, and several of them were looking at me. I heard soft murmurs as they whispered. I ignored them. I wanted to make Pine Hills my home again, but that didn’t mean I necessarily needed to make friends.

  I went home and started working on the farmhouse. It wasn’t much of a farm -- not yet. But maybe one day I’d plant some crops, and have some horses. Now that it was the first day of July, I was too late to get the planting started, but maybe in the spring I’d be ready.

  I spent a few hours ripping out every shred of carpet and then I loaded it all up and hauled it to the dump.

  I had one more errand. A visit to the post office. I still liked to send packages overseas to the guys from my SEAL unit that I’d left behind. I braced myself, because the woman who worked the counter always wanted to talk.

  Today she only grinned at me. And as soon as I turned away from the counter, three people were waiting on me, blocking the exit.

  One was the sheriff. One was the librarian, who was also my sister, and one was the town doctor.

  “What’s wrong?” I was hot, dusty, and tired. This had better be important.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” my sister said.

  “Hey son, can we talk to you for a minute?” the sheriff asked.

  Son. I wasn’t his son. My dad was dead from an early stroke. But I wasn’t going to argue with the old man. He’d been sheriff of this town for forty years.

  “Of course.” I had no idea what they wanted, but they’d obviously planned this. It better not be a fucking intervention. I already knew my sister thought I needed to get out more. She thought I was isolating myself, and brooding over in the farmhouse.

  Dr. Jones went first. “We all noticed how helpful you’ve been around town.”

  I nodded. I’d spend time training on how to handle tense situations. I didn’t mind helping out.

  Now the sheriff reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I did my best not to flinch away. They were all too fucking close to me, but I could handle it.

  “We think you’d be a great sheriff for this town,” he said.

  I did not see that coming. “Sir, you’re a great sheriff. You love Pine Hills.”

  “I need to retire. And soon.”

  My sister stared up at me. “There’s an election coming up. We want you to run. Even mom agrees.”

  That was a low blow.

  Abigail clasped her hands together. “You have all the right qualities. Please.”

  I took a step back. They were crowding me, and I had to get away, right then. “Sorry guys,” I said. “I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

  I went back home to my empty house. I don't know what the hell they were thinking asking me to be Sheriff. Most of them knew what I'd been through. Especially my sister and my mom. They knew I needed a break from guns and conflict and violence.

  I took a shower and brushed my teeth. I dragged the process out, dreading the inevitable. I stared at my bed. I didn't even want to lie down. I wasn't sure what the point was since it would take me hours to get to sleep. I had tried all of the meditation techniques and the visualization techniques too. I tried them with a therapist, and I'd tried the online apps too.

  Some of my buddies from the SEALs were resistant to any of the methods that didn’t involve alcohol or sleeping pills, but I was pretty open-minded. I’d do anything if it worked.

  I turned away from the bed. I couldn't face it tonight; maybe the couch would be a little more tolerable. I grabbed my pillow and banged down the stairs. There was no reason to be quiet here -- there was no one to disturb.

  That’s your choice. You chose this. You wanted to live alone.

  Both my sister and my mother had offered me a home with them. But I’d chosen my grandparents’ farm house, which had been sitting empty for five years. My best friend Barrett, who was living in Florida, had also offered me a home with him.

  But I needed this time apart from other humans. Outwardly, to people who weren’t my mother or sister, I seemed like I’d made a seamless adjustment back into civilian life. I’d saved all the money I’d earned. I could look people in the eye. I didn’t have obvious panic attacks. I was lucky.

  My problems started when I went to sleep. If I could even sleep at all. It was a far cry from my days in combat, when I could fall asleep in seconds while lying on a rock.

  I grabbed one of the afghan quilts from my grandmother’s lined closet. In the closet was an extra set of sheets and three blankets. That was it. My grandparents had been thrifty, and they’d kept their belongings fairly minimal. I didn’t have to sort through a pile of junk to find what I needed.

  I tossed my pillow onto the couch and laid down. It wasn’t a large couch, so my wide shoulders and my six feet and two inches barely fit. But on the couch, I didn’t feel the crushing pressure to sleep that I felt on the bed. Besides, I’d slept in barracks, on planes, in moving vehicles and on bare rocks with no blanket. I’d slept in the freezing cold, and the blazing heat.

  My grandmothe
r’s couch was practically an extravagance, compared to the other conditions I’d endured.

  I shifted around, hitting the pillow with my fist a few times. In the moonlight, I could make out the shape of the red brick fireplace. I'd spent many winters sitting there with my grandfather while he described his service in the army.

  He was a Vietnam Veteran, and he never talked about the violence or the death; he kept the stories funny. I knew he felt conflicted about the actual war, although he was loyal to the Army until the day he died.

  One of my favorite things to hear about was his description of the MRE meals, and how they ‘did their best to spice up the dehydrated sludge that they called food.’

  He was the reason I'd become a Navy SEAL.

  I closed my eyes and pictured my grandfather talking to me, telling me about the spicy herb his unit had bought from a local farmer to add to their potato flakes. It had caused some serious intestinal issues. My grandfather’s voice faded, and I heard my commanding officer.

  “Get down!” he screamed.

  Directly overhead, the night sky lit up, and the desert glowed for a few seconds.

  We were there on a very specific mission, to rescue a group of doctors who’d been kidnapped in Morocco while vaccinating children. The children had been saved, but the three doctors were being held in an underground cell.

  After blasting the doors off with C-4, we had to crawl through a dank, concrete tunnel. Ahead, shots rang out --

  I woke up panting, gasping for air.

  I was lying on the floor of my grandparents house, right next to the fireplace. The pillow and blanket were underneath me, rolled into a tight ball.

  I’d thought the blanket and pillow were my hostage. I’d been reliving the night we rescued the doctors. The dream was accurate -- I’d had to grab one of them and throw myself on top of her when their captors started firing. But that mission had a happy ending. All three of them lived.

  I pushed myself up on my knees and gripped the edge of the fireplace.

  Fuck.

  This is why I couldn't live with anyone. Not even my mother or my sister needed to see me like this. I sure as hell couldn’t date anyone as long as I was like this.

  There was only one therapist in Pine Hills. She was a great person, and probably a great therapist, but she was my little sister’s best friend. Even if she was professional, and never breathed a word to anyone, I couldn’t stomach the idea of telling her anything.

  I could drive to the next town over. Or I could arrange a session at the closest Veteran’s Hospital. But none of that appealed to me.

  Maybe if it got bad enough, I’d cave in and try going in for counseling again. But for now, I was going to focus on the house. I got up and went outside. The nights were still warm enough to chop wood, thank God.

  Chapter Three

  Ava

  Pretending to be a drug addict was scary. Really scary. I’d focused on the superficial parts first, so that I didn’t look out of place. To get the right look, I didn’t wash my hair. I didn’t brush it either. I slept in my clothes. I did brush my teeth though.

  I took the L, which was our version of the subway. I’d never set foot on it before. I tried not to wince at the grime.

  Part of me felt bad. The people out here on the streets were struggling. They needed help, and I didn’t want to make a mockery of their pain. But there was no other way for me to get information. No one on the street was ever going to trust an Ackland.

  The only consolation was that maybe if I exposed the criminals that were running our city, then I might be able to help some of the addicts get help. I might be investigating a gambling ring, but I was certain that the influx of drugs on the streets was connected.

  While I was on the streets, guys hit on me. They also made crude comments.

  Some of them were dirty and unkempt just like I was, and some of the guys were dressed in suits and ties. I kept my head down. Thankfully I had mace in one pocket, and a knife in my hoodie. I didn’t want to have to fight back, but I wanted to be prepared.

  Eventually I stopped walking and just hung around in front of a closed down shop. It wasn’t long before a woman approached me.

  She looked like she was pretty once, but now her lips were chapped and her eyes were bloodshot.

  “Where’d you come from?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to get caught in a lie, so I merely shook my head and looked at the cracked sidewalk.

  She didn’t back off, but bent down and peered at me closer. She clearly had no personal space, and I felt so exposed with her staring right into my eyes like that.

  I looked up and made eye contact, and it was clear that she was as high as a kite. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and her pupils were huge. I’d never done drugs in my life, not even marijuana, but I’d had friends who’d tried it. I wasn’t sure what this was, but I did see track marks on her arm.

  The only reason I knew what they were was because I’d watched a documentary. She saw me staring at her arms.

  “Are you looking for some?” she asked.

  I shook my head. Thankfully I’d created a story ahead of time that I hoped sounded like something a newcomer would say. I definitely did not want to buy heroin. “I hurt my back. I need some pills because the doctor won’t give me any more. I tried.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. They’ve really cracked down on that. I can do that for you.” She smiled. Her teeth looked pretty rough, but her eyes were kind. “I’m Jenny.”

  “I’m Amy,” I said.

  To my surprise, she pulled a newish smartphone from her back pocket. “Put your number in. Just put Amy, no last name.”

  Crap. I hadn’t thought to get an extra phone, and there was no way I was going to give her my real number. Lesson learned. I was going to pick up an extra phone tomorrow. “I don’t have a phone right now. I’ll get one tomorrow.”

  She frowned at me but didn’t say anything.

  “Do you want some food?” I asked, trying to distract her from asking me any questions. “I have some cash.” She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in a week, and I wanted to fix that.

  Her eyes lit up. “You don’t mind?”

  “No. We can go anywhere you want.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You have a job?”

  I shuddered. “If you can call it that.” I was going to let her draw her own conclusions.

  I was glad we were far away from the places where I usually dined. Of course, no of them would have even let us through the door.

  “I want something from Wendy’s.” She was so innocent, and guileless, in a way.

  My throat burned with sympathy for this poor girl. I was using her for a story, and that really sucked. But it was part of the job. If I stopped now, and only concentrated on her, then I’d have no story, and no one else was going to get any help.

  Was I overestimating my ability to break this story? What made me think I could make a difference?

  But I felt the deep need to try.

  I couldn’t help everyone, but I vowed that once I gained her trust and got the story started, then I’d come back and find her. There was no way I could leave this young woman out on the streets if there was any way for me to help her.

  “Where do you live?”

  She pointed at one of the derelict buildings.

  I opened my mouth to point out that it was condemned, but then I realized she probably knew that already.

  “Can I come up and hang out for a while?” There was no other way to gain her trust.

  This went on for weeks. During the day, I worked as a journalist.

  At night, I transformed myself into an addled drug addict who lived on the streets.

  I would buy Jenny a meal, and follow her back to her place. Sometimes she had extra cocaine or heroin, and she’d offer me some. I always told her I only got high once a day, in the mornings.

  She accepted this answer without question.

  By week four, she’d started sh
aring more information. And so had all the people that she lived with.

  Each night, I compiled copious notes of everything they’d said. I stored it on a flash drive, and the rest I uploaded onto an encrypted website I’d paid a friend to make. It wasn’t as secure as having a hard copy, but I couldn’t risk losing this story because I could get searched by either a cop or a thief.

  She told me about the casinos that were operating legally in the city. They followed all the rules. But there were other operations going on. They took place in private rooms, all over the city. They were attended by anyone who didn’t want to follow the rules, and who didn’t want to pay taxes on their winnings.

  There were rich, high stakes gamblers in some, that dealt in millions of dollars. In some of the rooms, the gamblers were poor, and paid with crumpled dollar bills and quarters. All of the money made was laundered through legitimate businesses.

  On week five, everything changed.

  Jenny brought a guy home with her. He was a runner for one of the casinos. He refused all drugs; he never used them, he said.

  I acted like I was high, and then I pretended to fall asleep. He and Jenny made out for a while next to me, and then she really did pass out. Once she was out, another man showed up. I tensed up at first, but the new guy ignored me and Jenny both.

  In hushed tones, Jenny’s boyfriend and his friend began to whisper about their jobs working for the illegal parts of the casinos. The boyfriend’s job was to run the illegal cash to an office building so it could be dispersed and hidden. He wasn’t supposed to talk about it, or even know what the business was, but someone high up had slipped.

  The building where he took the money was owned by Ackland Airlines.

  My father’s company.

  Every illusion I've had about my family shattered in one instant.

  Images of my father flashed through my head. My father in public, introducing the mayor at a charity gala, my father on the cover of finance magazines with his two business partners, and my father hosting my graduation party at The Drake Hotel which every socialite in Chicago attended.