When Mrs. Whitaker asked me to come back without my cleaning supplies, I assumed she had some old clothes or dishes she wanted me to take.
I even cleared out the back seat of my car.
For eight years, I’d cleaned her house every Thursday. I knew which kitchen drawer stuck, which towels were for guests, and exactly where every picture frame belonged after I dusted.
She knew me as Carly, the woman who arrived at nine and finished before two.
At least, that was how I thought she saw me.
She was never rude. She paid on time, left the air conditioning on when she went out, and always asked how my daughter was doing. But we weren’t friends who called each other on weekends. I had a key to her house, yet I still asked before taking a glass from the cabinet.
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