Chapter 1: The Maid With a Secret

I have a secret.

I’ve hidden this secret so long it’s fused to my bones—never daring to let a single word slip. Sometimes, when the world grew quiet—like in the soft hush just before sunrise, or when the scent of honeysuckle drifted in through a cracked window, sweet and sharp—I’d catch myself drifting into memories I could never share. They pressed behind my eyes, old heartbreaks folded into the shape of my smile.

Until the year I started working as a maid in the governor’s mansion.

My coworkers warned me: never cross Savannah Reynolds, Mrs. Reynolds. They said she was cold and ruthless, that people who got on her bad side always seemed to disappear. Their voices would drop to a nervous whisper in the staff kitchen after hours, as though even the walls might carry their secrets upstairs. The girls clutched their coffee mugs, wide-eyed, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Someone had left a box of Krispy Kreme donuts on the counter, untouched.

I didn’t believe it.

Because I’d seen Savannah Reynolds’ photograph before—and I recognized her as my daughter from my previous life.

When I died, she was only ten years old.

I wanted to find out why the gentle, sensible girl I once knew had now become such a feared villain…

1

Penny was beaten to death.

Her bloodied, mangled body was dragged past us by the security guards. Some of the more timid maids fainted from fright. One girl dropped her mop with a loud clatter, and the acrid tang of bleach hung in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood.

My stomach knotted as I watched them go, my eyes stuck on the streaks of blood across the polished floor. The gleaming cherrywood, usually buffed to a shine, was streaked and ruined. In the faint glow from the crystal chandelier, the stains looked even darker, like a wound pulsing at the heart of the house.

Soon, someone would come to clean up those stains. In this place, trouble never lingered long—only the hush afterward, and the way everyone pretended not to notice. After tonight, there would no longer be a maid named Penny in the mansion.

I still remember the day I started working here.

Penny had followed behind me, curiously taking in the grandeur of the old Southern estate. The place looked straight out of a history book—white columns, magnolia trees, the kind of wraparound porch you see in movies.

Later, we ate and lived together, learning the house rules side by side. She’d help me smooth out my uniform apron, her face scrunched in concentration, and we’d whisper about the strange customs of the house after lights out.

That night, she leaned over my bedside and whispered,

"Once we finish training, we’ll be assigned to serve the family members. Are you scared?"

I asked, "Scared of what?"

"Scared… of being sent to Mrs. Reynolds’ wing." Her voice was barely audible, trembling with unease and fear. "I heard from the older maids who left that Mrs. Reynolds is cruel and merciless—so many staff have been fired or worse…"

I said nothing.

She shrank beneath the covers. "I hope I won’t be that unlucky…"

Penny’s words turned out to be prophetic. She fiddled with the friendship bracelet on her wrist, twisting it between her fingers, then quickly tucked it away under her pillow, like it could shield her from what was coming.

She was assigned to Mrs. Reynolds’ wing, and now, after just seven days, she had become a cold corpse.

I withdrew my gaze and left with the other maids. My feet moved on autopilot, numb, as if the floorboards might give way beneath me. The hallway was silent except for the shuffle of soft-soled shoes.

We were sent to serve Mrs. Reynolds’ mother-in-law, but she liked quiet, so she sent us back again. I caught a glimpse of her through the doorway—silver hair, a shawl across her shoulders, eyes sharp as a hawk. She gave us a wave, dismissive and perfunctory, as if we were just background noise.

The head housekeeper summoned us.

She looked us over. "You all saw it—there’s now one less person in Mrs. Reynolds’ wing, so we need to send another maid over."

Before she had finished, several maids’ faces turned pale and they instinctively took a step back. One girl pressed her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out. The tension was thick enough to taste.

The youngest, Maddie, dropped to her knees at once, clutching the housekeeper’s skirt and sobbing desperately.

"I don’t want to go to Mrs. Reynolds’ wing, please! My parents are waiting for me back home—I don’t want to die!"

Her accent thickened as she pleaded, betraying the Tennessee in her voice. She sobbed, tears and snot streaming down her face. It was the kind of crying you only hear from kids who believe there’s no hope left, raw and honest. Even the older girls flinched, shifting their gaze away.

The housekeeper’s expression darkened, and she slapped Maddie across the face. The sound echoed in the hallway.

Nobody moved. The only sound was the distant hum of the old fridge.

A moment later, Maddie crumpled onto the linoleum, her breath coming in hiccupping gasps.

"Watch your mouth! Who told you that going to Mrs. Reynolds’ is a death sentence? If others hear this, you’d be in deep trouble!"

Frightened, Maddie immediately fell silent, her face ashen as she wept quietly. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her uniform, trying to stifle her cries. Everyone watched the floor, not daring to move.

The housekeeper grew impatient. "No one wants to go? Then I’ll just choose at random."

Her raised finger was about to land on one of the maids when I stepped forward.

"I’ll do it. I’ll go."

My heart hammered, but my voice stayed steady. Someone had to step up.

The other maids stared at me in shock. Their mouths parted, eyes wide, as if I’d just volunteered to jump off the roof.

The housekeeper hadn’t expected it either, and blurted out, "Why?"

"Because…"