I scan the other two articles, which are even more sparsely detailed. They simply relay the fact that no new information has been uncovered. I frown. Missing four weeks? Seems rather optimistic to keep calling it a disappearance, though no one would accuse me of being a positive thinker.
I feel an itch in my fingers, and can't stop myself from googling Brent Redmond. By contrast, a slew of articles pop up for his name, a mix of items from business outlets about his company and juicier pieces from society columns. I click on one of the latter, and bite my lip as a photo of him and a gorgeous blonde pops up. I zoom in on the photo. He's shirtless in it, and heat rises to my cheeks. That black suit he was wearing tonight was hiding some seriously toned muscles. My god. I scroll down to read the caption underneath. Real estate tycoon Brent Redmond and socialite Missy Latrell enjoy some fun in the sun in the south of France. Socialite? Is that a job title? Besides, she looks like a professional model. Of course that's the kind of woman he dates.
I force myself to close the browser page and focus on the sound of the rain outside. The few drops have turned into what sounds like a torrential downpour with high winds, and I can hear the old house creaking slightly. I stare up at the white ceiling and pull the thick blanket up under my chin as the familiar weight of sadness and guilt falls over me.
I picture Grace crossing the narrow strip of floor between our beds when she couldn't sleep as a child and softly raising my sheets to snuggle in beside me. I can almost feel her now, her tiny body generating heat as she would place her head on my pillow.
"I'm sorry, Grace," I whisper aloud, beginning my nightly refrain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I repeat as tears fall down my cheeks.
Chapter Five
I wake up the next morning at seven feeling like my brain is shrouded in fog, but I force myself to get up, brush my teeth, and put on my uniform. There's no sign of anyone in the kitchen, but I do find a note on the counter from Ms. Mueller saying, "Help yourself to anything in the fridge/pantry that's in a BLUE container. Anything in red is specifically for the Redmonds or guests."
Sounds fair. I open up the pantry and am happy to find a fine selection of cereals in blue containers, so I fix myself a small bowl and brew some coffee in the intimidatingly large machine. By eight, I've washed up after myself and am pulling the cleaning supplies out of the mud room. I decide to start in the massive basement, which I didn't really even have a chance to see yesterday. It seems to have taken the brunt of the last month's lack of a maid, and four hours fly by while I'm down there. At least my attention is focused enough that my mind stays clear of any thoughts of my boss.
I continue upstairs, dusting and vacuuming the East Wing, which consists of a less formal living room, a TV room or den, and a study that looks over the backyard. I cautiously poke my head into the final room—the door is open slightly but there's no one inside, so I push it open, dragging the vacuum behind me. I survey the room, with its thick oak desk and dual computer screens. This must be where Mr. Redmond works when he's home. To my horror, I realize that I actually have my nose in the air, trying to smell him. I shake my head at myself and look around for an outlet for the vacuum. I'm about to turn it on when I glance up to a picture above the fireplace, on the opposite wall from the desk.
My mouth drops open in shock. Is that a Winslow Homer? Can't be… he's one of the greatest painters in American history… his work costs millions… you'd have to be a billionaire to afford… oh, right. I steal to the door and glance both ways down the hallway, then slip off my shoes and pull a chair over to the fireplace. I gently step onto the seat of the chair, leaning forward to see the painting more closely. I look down at the signature in the corner. Sure enough, it reads, "Winslow Homer, '87". Holy shit. I mean, how many of Homer's paintings are even in private hands?
I bring my fingers up just inches away from the canvas, studying his brushstrokes. The image is of children in a rowboat, making their way through a tranquil harbor in eerily pink light. I'm absolutely transfixed by the beauty of it. So transfixed that I jump at the sound of a sudden noise next to me. Mr. Redmond is standing in the door with an annoyed expression on his face.
"Sorry, I—" I begin, and attempt to step toward him, forgetting that I'm standing on an armchair. My foot catches and I tumble forward. I gasp as he jumps forward and I fall face down onto his chest. "Oh god, oh I'm so sorry," I mumble, pressing my hands onto his shoulders to pick myself up. I feel his strong muscles beneath my fingers, but it's nothing compared to being just inches from those piercing light eyes. I freeze, barely breathing.