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Most of all, she knew the people.
His son, Ethan, seven years old, more dinosaur than child most days, with elbows, questions, and unexpected hugs.
And Margaret.
Adam’s mother.
The matriarch.
Queen of the house, even though she didn’t technically live there; she had a luxurious apartment in the city, but she was at the estate so often that Clara sometimes forgot her official address.
Margaret Hamilton was one of those women who would notice if someone moved a vase three inches to the left.
She wore pearls in the kitchen and drank her coffee as if she’d been offended.
Clara respected her.
Everything changed one Tuesday morning.
Clara arrived at 7:30 a.m. as usual, the September air fresh enough to make her button up her cardigan more tightly as she walked from the bus stop to the long driveway.
Inside, the estate was silent. The staff entrance opened onto the foyer, then into the kitchen: a vast, gleaming space with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances that Clara cleaned four times a day.
She hung her coat in the small staff closet, slipped on her indoor shoes, tied her hair back, and checked the handwritten list on the counter.
Margaret’s list.
A new one every day.
TUESDAY:
Change the sheets in the guest bedroom (blue suite)
Deep clean the upstairs bathroom
Breakfast 8:00 – oatmeal, fruit, coffee (no sugar)
Clara smiled.
She liked lists.
They made everything seem manageable.
She put a pot of coffee on to boil—strong, black, two cups always ready for Margaret at 8:05 sharp—and started preparing breakfast.
At 7:50, she heard footsteps upstairs. Ethan’s voice drifted in.
“Clara, are there waffles?”
“Not today,” she replied, lifting the lid of the oatmeal pot. “Oatmeal and fruit. Very healthy.”
He appeared in the doorway in dinosaur pajamas, his hair standing on end, rubbing his eyes.
“Healthy is boring,” he complained. “At least there are blueberries?”
“Yes,” she said, placing a bowl in front of him. “And if you eat them, you’ll grow as strong as a T-Rex.”
He frowned. “T-Rexes didn’t eat fruit.”
“Then strong as a… Stegosaurus,” she said.
“They ate plants,” he conceded, taking his spoon. “Okay. I like Stegosaurus.”
She poured him orange juice and placed a coffee mug on the far end of the counter, right where Margaret liked it.
As always, the click of heels echoed in the hallway.
“Good morning,” Clara said.
Margaret entered the kitchen wearing a cream blouse and tailored trousers, her makeup flawless, her hair in a sleek bob. She glanced at the counter, picked up the coffee without looking at Clara, and took a sip.
“Too hot,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” Clara replied quickly. “I’ll let it cool a little longer next time.”
Margaret hummed, noncommittal.
Her eyes scanned the kitchen, taking stock, then rested briefly on her grandson.
“You’re dropping some oatmeal,” she said.
Ethan stopped mid-bite and checked his shirt.
There was nothing.
“Gran,” he said patiently. “There’s no oatmeal.”
“Well, there will be,” she said. “Don’t slouch.”
She took another sip of coffee and headed for the door.
“Adam will be working from home today,” she said to Clara over her shoulder. “People are coming this afternoon. Investors, of sorts. The house must be spotless. As always.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clara replied.
It wasn’t until mid-morning that Clara noticed the door to the jewelry room was open. Continue reading…
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