PART 2 — THE ROOM I WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO ENTER
The next morning, I drove to Eleanor’s house alone.
I parked at the curb instead of in the driveway.
The house looked different.
The curtains were gone.
Several rooms were empty.
Boxes stood near the front door.
There was no sound from inside.
I rang the bell.
Nothing.
I knocked.
Still nothing.
My heart started beating faster.
Then I noticed the front door was unlocked.
“Eleanor?”
No answer.
I stepped inside.
The air smelled like cardboard and old wood.
Most of the furniture had been removed.
I walked through the living room.
Empty.
Dining room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Almost empty.
Then I heard a sound from upstairs.
A floorboard creaking.
I froze.
“Eleanor?”
Silence.
I almost left.
Then I remembered her warning.
Come alone.
Leave your cleaning supplies behind.
Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.
I climbed the stairs.
Halfway up, I noticed something that made my skin prickle.
The blue vase was still there.
But it was cracked.
I had dusted that vase hundreds of times.
Eleanor had always treated it like it was priceless.
Now a long crack ran down its side.
I kept walking.
At the top of the stairs, I saw the study door open.
That was strange.
She had never left it open.
I stepped inside.
The desk was still there.
So was the locked cabinet.
Except the cabinet door was open.
I stared at it.
Inside was a stack of old folders.
Most were gone.
Only one remained.
My name was written on it.
I stopped breathing.
My name.
Not my employer number.
Not my initials.
My full name.
I reached for the folder.
Inside were copies of my employment documents.
My address.
My husband’s name.
My daughter’s school information.
I felt dizzy.
Why had Eleanor kept records about my family?
There was one final page.
It was a handwritten note.
I recognized Eleanor’s handwriting.
You were chosen because you didn’t ask questions.
I dropped the page.
Then I heard a noise behind me.
I turned.
Nobody.
I searched the room.
Nothing.
But when I returned to the hallway, I noticed that the basement door was open.
I had seen that door closed every single day for eight years.
I slowly walked toward it.
The basement stairs were dark.
I turned on the light.
One bulb flickered overhead.
I remembered Eleanor’s words.
There is nothing in that room worth cleaning.
I reached the bottom.
At the end of the basement was the small room she had forbidden me to enter.
The door was open.
Inside stood a wooden chair.
A metal filing cabinet.
And one old table.
On the table was a tape recorder.
Next to it sat an envelope.
My name was written across it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a key.
And a note.
If you’re reading this, I am already gone.
I looked around the room.
My breathing grew shallow.
There was another line.
I am sorry I lied to you for eight years.
I pressed the button on the tape recorder.
At first there was only static.
Then Eleanor’s voice.
“Marianne, if you are hearing this, you have finally entered the room I told you to avoid.”
I sat down.
“Before you decide whether to hate me, listen to everything.”
Her voice trembled.
“Eight years ago, I hired you because of something that happened to me.”
Static.
Then:
“Someone came into this house looking for a ledger.”
I frowned.
“What ledger?”
Eleanor continued.
“They believed I had stolen money from a company called Whitmore Holdings.”
My eyes widened.
I knew that name.
It was a major regional construction company.
Eleanor was once married to its founder, Thomas Whitmore.
I had heard the name only once before, from a delivery driver.
The recording continued.
“Thomas died twenty years ago. Everyone believed he died naturally. They were wrong.”
I stopped the recorder.
I stared at the machine.
Then I pressed play again.
“Thomas discovered that money was being stolen from the company through accounts hidden overseas. He wrote everything down. Names. Dates. Payments. Bank numbers.”
My throat tightened.
“Before he could expose them, he died.”
I looked at the locked filing cabinet.
Eleanor said:
“And the people who benefited from his silence have spent twenty years trying to find what he left behind.”
A long pause.
Then her voice became softer.
“I found it.”
I swallowed hard.
“It’s hidden in this house.”
The tape clicked.
Silence.
Then one final sentence:
“Marianne, you were never just my cleaner.”
The recording ended.
I sat motionless.
The woman I had cleaned for eight years had apparently selected me for a reason.
And whatever Thomas Whitmore had hidden was still inside that house.
The metal filing cabinet suddenly creaked.
I jumped.
I hadn’t touched it.
One drawer slowly opened by itself.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Eleanor standing beside a younger man.
Thomas.
On the back, in red ink, were four words:
HE IS STILL WATCHING.
I looked toward the basement stairs.
For the first time in eight years, I understood why Eleanor had been afraid.
Someone had been watching this house.
And there was a chance they were watching me now.
