The Maid: A Novel (Molly the Maid Book 1)

Once I finish my call to Mr. Preston, Detective Stark holds out her hand. In truth, I do not know what for, so I grab my empty Styrofoam cup and pass it to her, thinking we are finished and that she’s cleaning the table.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Now you think I’m your maid?”

I most certainly do not. If she were anywhere near a half-decent maid, this room would not look as it does—scuffed and scratched, stained and smeared. If I had so much as a napkin and a bottle of water, I could bide my time cleaning up this pigpen.

Detective Stark takes my phone from my hand.

“Will I get that back? I have essential contacts that I’d hate to lose.”

“You’ll get it back,” she says. “Someday.” She looks at her watch. “So, is there anything else you’d like to say, while we’re waiting for your lawyer?”

“My apologies, Detective. Please don’t take my silence personally. First off, I’ve never been very gifted with small talk and when I’m forced to make it, I often say the wrong thing. Second, I’m aware of my right to remain silent and so I’ll begin employing it immediately.”

“Fine,” she says. “Have it your way.”

After what seems like an unholy eternity, there’s a loud knock on the door.

“This should be interesting,” Detective Stark says, rising from her chair and opening the door.

It’s Mr. Preston, in civilian dress. I’ve rarely seen him out of his doorman’s cap and coat. He’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue shirt and dark jeans. There’s a woman with him dressed much more formally in a tailored navy suit, carrying a black leather briefcase. Her short, curly hair is perfectly coiffed. Her dark-brown eyes immediately give away who she is because they’re so much like her father’s.

I stand to greet them. “Mr. Preston,” I say, barely able to contain my relief at seeing them. I move a bit too quickly and hit my hip bone on the table. It smarts, but it doesn’t stop the surge of words that flows from my mouth. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you so much for coming. It’s just that I’ve been accused of some terrible things. I’ve never harmed anyone, never touched a drug in my life, and the only time I’ve ever held a weapon was—”

“Molly, I’m Charlotte,” Mr. Preston’s daughter says, interrupting me. “It’s my professional advice that you remain silent at this time. Oh. And it’s very nice to meet you. My dad has told me a lot about you.”

“One of you better be an attorney, or I’m going to lose it,” Detective Stark says.

Charlotte steps forward, her sharp heels clacking loudly on the cold, industrial floor. “That would be me, Charlotte Preston, of Billings, Preston & García,” she says, flicking a business card to the detective.

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says to me. “We’re here now, so don’t you worry about a thing. This is all just a big—”

“Dad,” Charlotte says.

“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, and zips his mouth shut.

“Molly, do you agree to be represented by me?”

I don’t say a word.

“Molly?” she prods.

“You instructed me not to speak. Should I speak now?”

“My apologies. I wasn’t clear. You can speak, just not anything relating to the charges lain. Let me ask you again: do you agree to be represented by me?”

“Oh yes, that would be most helpful,” I say. “Can we discuss a payment plan at a more convenient time?”

Mr. Preston coughs into his hand.

“I’d offer you a tissue, Mr. Preston, but I’m afraid I don’t have one on me.” I eye Detective Stark, who is shaking her head.

“Please don’t worry about payment right now. Let’s just concentrate on getting you out of here,” Charlotte says.

“You realize that to release her you’ve got to post bail of $800,000. Now, let me see…” Detective Stark says as she puts her index finger to her lips, “I think that’s just a spot above a maid’s earnings and assets, am I right?”

“You’re right, Detective,” Charlotte says. “Maids and doormen are often underpaid and undervalued. But litigators? We do all right. Better than detectives, so I’m told. I’ve personally posted bail with the clerk out front.” She smiles at Detective Stark. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that it’s not a friendly smile.

Charlotte turns to me. “Molly,” she says. “I’ve arranged for you to have a bail hearing later this morning. I’m not allowed to represent you there, but I’ve filed some letters already on your behalf.”

“Letters?” I ask.

“Yes, from my father, who has provided a character statement, and from me, saying I’ll post your bail. If all goes well, you’ll be released this afternoon.”

“Really?” I ask. “Is it that simple? I’ll be released and this will be over?” I look from her to Mr. Preston.

“Hardly,” Detective Stark says. “Even if they get you off now, you’ll still have to stand trial. It’s not like we’re dropping the charges.”

“Is that your phone?” Charlotte asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’ll make sure it’s kept locked and safe somewhere, right, Detective? You won’t be logging that as evidence.”

Detective Stark pauses. Her hand is on her hip. “It’s not my first rodeo, cowgirl. I’ve got her house keys, too, by the way, which she insisted I keep after she passed out.” The detective fishes my keys from her pocket and drops them on the table. If I had an antiseptic wipe, I’d snatch them up and immediately disinfect them.

“Great,” Charlotte says, picking up my keys and phone. “We’ll talk to your clerk out front and make sure they log these as personal possessions, not evidence.”

“Fine,” says Detective Stark.

Mr. Preston is looking down at me, his eyebrows crinkling together. It may be that he’s concentrating hard, but I think it’s more likely that he’s concerned.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll be waiting for you after the hearing.”

“See you on the other side,” Charlotte adds. And with that, they turn and leave.

Once they’re gone, Detective Stark just stands there, arms crossed, glaring at me.

“What happens now?” I ask. I’m finding it hard to breathe.

“You and your teapots go back to your charming holding cell and wait patiently for your hearing,” Detective Stark replies.

I stand and straighten my pajamas. The young officer outside is ready to escort me back to the repugnant cell.

“Thank you very much,” I say to the detective before I exit.

“Thank you for what?” she asks.

“For the muffin and the coffee. I do hope you have a more pleasant morning than mine.”