Maid by Mistake

by Miley Maine

  Private memories surfaced as well: my father at home with a glass of bourbon, asking me to tell him about my civics final, my father handing me the keys to my shiny new BMW, and my father blinking rapidly at my mother’s funeral.

  Supposedly, my father didn’t own a casino.

  Supposedly he was a law abiding citizen.

  It was all a lie.

  My father was not who he said he was.

  He was making money off illegal gambling.

  And people were being harmed because of it. Maybe not physically harmed. But their lives were ruined. They were evicted, and kicked out on the streets. They were held hostage to this way of life.

  But I had to keep it together. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe all the information was bad. I had to stick around so I could find out the truth.

  Right now, you are not a betrayed daughter. You are a girl suffering from addiction, looking for a warm place to sleep.

  I shouldn't care that a multi-millionaire runs a gambling ring that’s intertwined with organized crime -- it didn’t affect my life.

  I was supposed to be worried about my next drug fix, my next meal.

  I could not fall apart. I had to stay professional, and hold it together. If I reacted too strongly, I could give myself away. I would draw attention to myself. No one in this group would appreciate a narc.

  I might not make it out of here alive.

  If I could survive this, it would not be my last journalism job.

  No tears came.

  I had questions to ask. I scrubbed my hand over my face to make my eyes look bleary. “Hey,” I poked her boyfriend’s arm. I made sure to slur my words. “Can I get a job there?”

  He scoffed. “As what? A stripper?”

  “No. A dealer.”

  He laughed out loud this time. “Not likely. They don’t hire drug addicts.”

  Jenny swatted his arm. “Hey.”

  He shrugged. “No offense babe. But they don’t. You gotta be sharp. You gotta keep your mouth shut.”

  He hadn’t done a great job of keeping his shut. But if everyone had, then the rumors wouldn’t exist.

  I kept coming back. Every night in July, and every night in August. Until finally, it paid off.

  Each night, I got a little more information. The information wasn’t wrong.

  I stepped out of Jenny’s dilapidated building. In the shadows across the street, I saw a large male figure. He stood out because he wasn't dressed in street clothing. He wore an obviously tailored three-piece suit.

  He never took his eyes off of me.

  Fuck. It was Christopher Moore, one of my father’s closest friends. My father had two partners in his business. One was Christopher, and the other was Carl Simmons.

  I’d never known him as anything other than Christopher. I’d never called him Mr. Moore, or Mr. Chris., or even Uncle Chris, just Christopher. He’d been around as long as I could remember.

  Carl was the same way. He’d always been around. They were both at our home all the time. Unlike my father, neither were married. Neither had children.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Christopher had clearly seen me.

  He either thought I’d joined the underworld to live a life on the streets, which would be totally out of character for me, or he knew exactly what I was doing. Had he been following me? Had he seen me with Jenny’s boyfriend, the one who knew way too much?

  As I stepped onto the crosswalk, he took one step forward.

  In the light of the streetlamp, his eyes glinted. He looked sinister. And I very much felt like his prey.

  I speed walked away from him. I did turn back to look over my shoulder.

  He didn’t follow me.

  I arrived home around one a.m. My father was never aware of me coming or going. Our house was so big that I didn’t have to try and be quiet.

  However tonight, I was as quiet as a mouse.

  Once I got to my room, I closed the door behind me. Before I could begin to dismantle my costume someone knocked on my door. The staff never knocked on my door this late. Ever. Reluctantly I pressed my face against the Mahogany wood. “Who is it?”

  “It's your father.”

  Shit. What the hell was I going to do? My eyes darted to my large window. My room was on the second floor of our house. I could try to climb out the window and escape but I might break both my legs. I had a bag ready to go in case I needed to run.

  My father knocked again. “Ava Elizabeth, let me in right now.” His voice boomed on the other side of the door. “I need to speak with you.”

  I turned the deadbolt on my door and slowly pulled it open. My father was still in his work clothes. He’d shed his jacket and tie, but he still wore a white dress shirt and black suit pants.

  I stood with my body still blocking the rest of my room. “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked.

  “Can we sit down?”

  “Do you want to go down to the dining room?” That was where we usually discussed family matters. when we bothered to have a discussion at all.

  “No, I'd prefer to have the privacy that your room offers.”

  He was right; my room was much more private than the dining room. A staff member only came into my room on Mondays to clean. But usually if we wanted privacy, we went to his library.

  In my room, no one would be nearby to listen. My pulse picked up. I hoped my father wanting privacy wasn't a bad sign for me. Surely my own father wouldn't have me eliminated.

  But I couldn't be certain. My family had never been loving, not in the way that families were depicted on television or in books. But I had truly believed they obeyed the law. Now that I knew that wasn't true, I wasn't certain of anything.

  My father finally spoke. “I had a visit from Christopher tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?” I did my best to sound bored, but there was a reason I went into journalism and not acting. It didn't really interest me, which was convenient because I was awful at it.

  However, my father was obviously good at acting. He’d fooled me, along with an entire city.

  This was who my father was. A wealthy businessman who was always working. But that wasn't the whole picture. He was a criminal. Not only did he break the law, but he was complicit in ruining people's lives.

  It was clear that my father was the front man. He was an eloquent smooth talker, whereas Carl and Christopher had more rough edges. It would be easy to tell myself that they were the ones who were guilty of committing the crimes, or that they were the ones who came up with the plans to make money illegally. But that wouldn't be fair.

  It was easy to stick to the facts in journalism. It wasn't so easy when it came to my family.

  Do not let him convince you that you’re wrong. What you saw, and what you heard is real. You know the truth. You have evidence. He’s not an innocent bystander. Your father is guilty.

  After standing there for a long pause, I motioned my father toward my sitting area. Yes, I had a sitting area in my room. A year ago when I’d graduated from college, I’d hired a designer to redo it. It was decorated in subtle gray tones, with lime green accents.

  I wasn’t sure my father had ever been in here before, certainly not in years. So the fact that he’d bothered to come to my room told me he knew what had happened.

  My heart was already pounding, but now it was beating so hard I could hear the blood surging through my body.

  It sucked to be nervous around your own father.

  I sat down on a cream-colored upholstered chair. My father sat directly across from me. I didn’t speak. I was going to wait for him to reveal what exactly he knew.

  “It's come to my attention that you found out some information about my business.”

  Business was a generous term for the racket he was running.

  I nodded, but I didn’t speak. I might feel like I was in trouble, but he was the one at fault here, not me.

  “I’m not going to lie to you and deny it. I think at this point, that would be
futile.”

  I nodded again. It would definitely be pointless.

  “The information you gathered is accurate. I can’t imagine how you must feel about it, but it’s true. I have been involved in those activities.”

  My jaw dropped. I’d expected a denial. I’d expected a bombastic colorful explanation of why he wasn’t running a criminal enterprise. But my smooth-talking father didn’t lie. He told the truth.

  “I won’t excuse it. But I will ask for your forgiveness.”

  My father might want me around. He loved me, in his own way. But his partners definitely did not. They were going to want me to keep my mouth closed.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I replied. I did have one question. “How did Christopher know?”

  “I’ve always had a security detail watching you. That bodyguard told Christopher where you were, before I could intervene.”

  “You had me followed.”

  “Yes. I won’t apologize for that. The world is a crazy place.”

  The nerve of him. “How much of that danger came from the illegal casinos you run? And the thugs you’ve hired?”

  His eyes darted away. “Probably a good portion.”

  I woke up with an uneasy feeling. It was seven a.m., and the house was completely silent. I didn’t hear any of our staff. Usually they were already cleaning or making breakfast.

  I stopped by our home office, but it was empty too.

  However, my father had the security cameras pulled up on his monitor. They were aimed at our back porch, and apparently they were equipped to pick up audio as well. I heard the sound of men’s voices, and then my father and both of his partners were sitting down.

  Just seeing Christopher again sent my heart rocketing.

  With trembling knees, I lowered myself into his desk chair and watched. Had my father purposefully left the surveillance videos pulled up? I knew we had cameras, but I thought only our security guard had access to them.

  Had my father always watched all of our guests? It was really creepy that the camera on the back porch could pick up voices. I’d thought they were only to protect us from break ins or home invasions.

  A chill ran down my spine.

  “You talked to her?” Christopher asked.

  By ‘her’ he obviously meant me.

  My father handed them each a glass of what looked like bourbon. “Yes. Last night.”

  “What’d you tell her?” That was Carl’s voice.

  “The truth.”

  “What the fuck are you thinking? She’s a reporter.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  Carl leaned back and took a long swig of his drink. “She’s not our daughter.”

  My father sat up straight. “You stay away from her. You are not allowed to speak to her.”

  Someone made a derisive snorting sound. I think it was Christopher. “That’s great for you. You're her dad. She won’t rat you out.”

  “I’ve already told her I’m leaving the business.”

  “You can’t mean that. You told her that so she’d drop the story, right?”

  “No. I mean it. I’m going on the straight and narrow. I’ll buy out all of my shares. I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

  “Preston. You can’t walk away,” Christopher said to my father.

  “I can. And I will.” My father stood up and pointed at them both. “You two will drop this now. I'm leaving the business and my daughter is not going to reveal her knowledge.”

  Carl stood up too, and he got right in my father’s face. “She didn't stumble into this, Preston. She wasn't minding her own business and someone told her the truth -- she went looking for it. She put on fucking grungy street clothes and pretended to be a drug addict. She's not going to let this go.”

  Carl was right about that. I knew I needed to call the FBI sooner rather than later. I had no idea how to get them to listen to me. I’d planned to publish the story first, but I might not have that kind of time. A few students from my University had gone on to train at Quantico and join the agency. Maybe I could call one of them.

  “I'll talk to her again today,” my father said. “I'll take her on vacation to Paris, and we’ll stay for a month. It's always been her favorite place.”

  “Are you losing it? Do you really think that's going to help? She sees herself as a crusader. She thinks she's doing the right thing, and exposing corruption. She wants to make a name for herself in journalism and we will be her victims.”

  “No, she's nothing like that. She's an idealistic young woman with stars in her eyes. She doesn't know anything about the real world.”

  Was my father losing it? It was bizarre that Carl understood me better than my own father. I didn’t want to die, but I wasn’t giving up on this. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

  Still lingering on the back porch, my father sighed. “As a show of good faith, I’m sending you both a link with my passwords. You both have access to everything in my office. As for the business bank account, I'm calling my attorney so that you don't need my signature. A month in Paris will give us some time to cool off, and when I get back, we can talk again.”

  If my father wasn’t losing it, then was he naive?

  Or did he really think they were going to be satisfied with his commands?

  As I peered at the computer monitor, the look at Carl and Christopher exchanged was clear. They were not going to drop this. They weren't going to rest until I was dead.

  Maybe they’d arrange a plane crash, or a car accident, or even some food poisoning in a popular Parisan bistro.

  Even with the monitor in between us, I could clearly read the loathing in Carl's eyes, and I could read the absolute malice in Christopher's. Maybe they let me make it to Paris, maybe they wouldn't, but it was absolutely crystal clear that I could not stay here in Chicago.

  I had to leave. Right now.

  Chapter Four

  Tyler

  “Sheriff Whittaker!”

  I turned around to see one of the Kindergartners running toward me. I’d been sheriff for two months now, and so far, I was working non-stop. The school principal had asked me to come in and give the kids a career day talk. He wanted me to talk about being a Navy SEAL first, and then a sheriff.

  I’d wanted to decline, but the principal, who I’d graduated high school with, said, “some of these kids could really use a male role model to look up to.”

  Damn. That was a low blow. Of course I had to say yes after that.

  For five-year-olds, I mostly stuck with the training parts of being a SEAL. Although I valued my time in the service, there weren’t many stories I could tell that belonged in an elementary classroom.

  When the sheriff retired, his deputy had retired too. So I’d been left with a secretary, and no other staff. Barrett, my best friend who’d served with me as a SEAL had recently ended his final deployment too, so I gave him a call.

  “I need you to move here,” I said.

  “Why the hell would I want to live in Pine Hills?”

  “Because it’s better than Miami, and you fucking know it.” Barrett was working at a private security firm as a bodyguard, watching out for all the rich people in Miami, but he detested the job. He never stopped complaining about all the assholes he had to take care of. So far none of them had been threatened, but they spent a whole lot of their time wasted, and that became his problem.

  “Fuck you, man. Seriously, what’s up?”

  “How’s the job going?” I asked. .

  He groaned. “One of the socialites got high last night and threw up all over me.”

  “See. I told you. No one has thrown up on me here.” I sighed. “I could use your help if you’re up for it.”

  His tone grew serious. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Spill it. We promised we wouldn’t hide shit from each other.”

  “I’m the sheriff now, I said. I was elected in early July. They held a special election,
just so I could run.”

  “The sheriff? Of what?” he asked.

  “Of Pine Hills.”

  “Oh holy fuck. You said you were moving there for some peace and quiet.”

  “They needed my help,” I explained.

  “You’ve always been a sucker for people in need. Jesus.” There was a rustling sound then he said, “what do you need me to do?”

  “I want you to come here and be my deputy.” Not only would it help me, living here would be good for Barrett. He was continually frustrated by his rich clients, and here he’d have the opportunity to make a real difference. I wasn’t going to tell Barrett that though. I was going to let him think this was only for me. Then he’d be more likely to come and help.

  “They've already got you as sheriff, what the hell do they need me for?”

  “I can't work twenty-four hours a day, no matter how much I might want to.”

  I hadn't found my peace and quiet. The nightmares hadn’t completely stopped. But I wasn't ready to talk to Barrett about them. Working constantly was a Band-Aid of sorts; it kept me from dwelling on them.

  And honestly, I was good at the job. The town picked me for a reason, but my farmhouse was beyond neglected now. It was an actual disrepair. The dishes were piled up in the sink. There was something rotten in the refrigerator. And my poor dog was alone way too much.

  I’d gotten Sadie, who was definitely mostly Labrador, as soon as I was elected sheriff. I brought her to work as often as I could. But she wasn't a trained police dog, so she couldn’t go out on calls with me. I thought about getting her trained, but I hadn't even had time to look into that process.

  My sister had been after me for weeks to hire a maid. I put her off. I hated the idea of someone in my space.

  But after I came home one night and saw that my sweet dog was out of dog food and her water dish was empty, I was ready to start looking for a maid to help out.