It was just after seven when I found myself alone in the dining room, the clock ticking softly in the background. My husband and his sister had left for what they called a ‘business dinner,’ leaving me with the new maid, Rosa, who was supposedly non-English speaking. I was organizing receipts from last month’s expenses when I heard the broom clatter behind me. Rosa stood there, no longer the quiet figure I’d assumed.
“Ma’am, do not eat the soup they left in the fridge,” she said, her voice calm yet urgent.
My fingers paused over a receipt dated March 15, as I processed her unexpected warning. The quiet room suddenly felt different, charged with an unease I couldn’t quite place. Rosa’s eyes met mine, steady and unflinching, and I knew I couldn’t leave her words unexamined.
I needed to know more, but first, I had to decide whom to trust in this unexpected narrative. Should I confront my husband or dig deeper on my own?
The kitchen held its secrets, and I was about to uncover them, one step at a time.
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