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He’s almost perfect. And I hate his guts.
If Cecelia does something unacceptable, I’m the one who gets punished. He has purchased a wardrobe of itchy, frilly dresses that she hates, that the other children make fun of her for wearing, but she knows if she doesn’t wear them or gets them dirty, her mother will disappear for days (likely naked, to teach me clothing is a privilege). So she obeys.
I moved in here—Andy won’t let me. I miss it.
He isn’t usually in our yard two days in a row. He’s here for a reason that has nothing to do with the state of our flower beds.
“So fire her if you want.” I blink at him. “I can’t stop you.” “Believe me, I will.” Except he doesn’t fire her. Because when he comes home that night, for the first time, the house is clean. And she serves him a dinner that isn’t burned. And she is young and beautiful. So Millie stays in the attic.
And most of all, I treat Millie like crap. It doesn’t come easily to me to treat her that way. Deep down, I’m a nice person. Or at least, I used to be before Andy wrecked me. Now everything is a means to an end. Millie might not deserve it, but I can’t do this anymore. I have to get out. She starts hating me on her first morning at our house. I’ve got a PTA meeting in the evening, and I march into the kitchen first thing in the morning. I have left a mess over the last couple of weeks, and Millie did an amazing job cleaning up. She worked really hard. Every surface is shining.
I feel terrible about this. I really do. I rip the kitchen apart. I pull out every dish and every cup I can find. I throw pots and pans on the floor. Just as Millie arrives, I’m getting to the refrigerator. Growing up, I was responsible for my fair share of chores, and it’s physically painful for me to take a milk carton and throw it on the ground, letting the milk spill out everywhere. But I force myself. Means to an end. When Millie enters the kitchen, I turn around and look at her accusingly.
He’s attracted to her because I’m turning her into the victim.
My legs are wobbly when I stand up, but they work. Andrew is still writhing on the cot, and before he can get his sight back, I slip out of the room and close the door behind me. Then I take the key Nina gave me and fit it into the lock. I turn the key and pocket it. Then I take a step back.
“Millie,” he says in a slow, controlled voice. “I want my phone back.” I let out a hoarse laugh. “I’m sure you do.” “Millie, give me my phone back right now.” “Hmm. I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.” “Millie.” “Just a moment.” I slip his phone into my pocket. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat. I’ll be back real soon.” “Millie!”
“Will you let me out now?” “Yes. I will.” “Thank you.” “Just not yet.” He inhales sharply. “Millie…” “I’m going to let you out.” My calm voice belies the pounding in my chest. “But before I do, you have to be punished for what you did to me.” “Don’t play this game,” he growls. “You don’t have the stomach for it.”
“If you ask me,” he says, “that attic is a hazard. Seems like it’s far too easy to get locked up there.” He leans back again, his voice returning to a normal volume. “It’s a shame that happened to your husband. I’m sure my buddy in the coroner’s office will also agree. It’ll have to be a cautionary tale, won’t it?”
“If you don’t take care of your teeth,” she continues, “then you lose the privilege to have teeth.” “Evelyn?” “Andy knew that. He knew that was my rule.” She lifts her eyes. “When I pulled out one of his baby teeth with pliers, I thought he understood.” I stare at her, too afraid to speak. Too afraid of the next words that will leave her mouth. And when they finally come, it takes my breath away: “It’s such a shame,” she says, “that he never really learned. I’m glad you stepped up and taught him a lesson.”
My heart pounds enough that I feel dizzy. And now I finally get it. I understand why Nina recommended me so highly to this woman. She knows me. Maybe even better than I know myself. “So”—Lisa slides the knife back into the wooden block and straightens up, her blue eyes wide and anxious—“can you help me, Millie?” “Yes,” I say. “I believe I can.”

