Chapter 1
The power flickers on and off, as if the hotel is taking a dying gasp. I draw in a breath and hold it, but thankfully the lights come on as the wind dies down. It’s cold comfort. In a matter of time, they’ll go out again, and eventually they’ll stay out. I’m standing in the alcove directly off our Great Room with my hands clenched into fists. The anticipation is killing me.
Driving rain pelts the exterior like thousands of fingers tapping against the roof and walls. A monster is knocking to get in. This particular monster has a name. The meteorologists call him Larry, the most powerful hurricane to ravage the coast of Maine since Gerda made landfall back in 1969. A large tree is blocking the steep road leading up to the Precipice Hotel. The road itself is a rolling river of mud, impassable on foot or by car. There is no way out. No place for me to go. But I can’t stay here.
I scope out my surroundings, planning my escape route before the lights go out again. Sure enough, a fresh gust gradually crescendos into a loud roar. The hotel shakes, and just as I feared, everything goes dark. My breath catches in my throat as a band of fear pulls tight across my chest.
I turn around, taking a tentative step forward, trying to orient myself in this void. Memory is my guide. I’ve worked as a housekeeper here for the last two years. “Chambermaid” is my official title, which is super outdated, misogynistic, and way uncool, but so was my boss. I should know this place like the back of my hand, but anxiety seems to have short-circuited my brain.
My biggest problem is that this hotel is full of stuff. It’s like an antique shop of countless treasures and curiosities, transformed into a funky travel destination in Nowhere, Maine.
If I have my bearings, the grand staircase in our Great Room is to the left, but that goes to the second floor, and I want to go out, not up. There’s an exit through the foyer, and I inch my way toward it. I don’t have much time.
I take several small, cautious steps, keeping both hands in front of me, using them like antennae to sense my surroundings. Outside, the wind continues to wail. In my whole life—all nineteen years of it—I’ve never heard such a terrible, bone-rattling sound. The gusts shake the walls of this sturdy structure in an unending shudder.
My breath sputters no matter how I try to calm myself. Just when I think I’m nearing the foyer, my foot connects hard with what I’m sure is a table leg. The contact makes a loud thud and I hear the sound of breaking glass when something (a tall vase, perhaps?) tumbles to the floor.
The crash reverberates, no doubt giving away my position. I go completely still, eyes pointlessly probing the inky gloom, ears fighting to pick up any noise other than the wind. Another fierce gust shakes the windows—and my nerves, with equal measure. Terrified, I can’t move from where I stand.
Somewhere behind me, the three Bishop sisters are cloaked in this impenetrable darkness. Only one question remains: Which sister is coming to kill me?
Chapter 2
Wednesday, three days earlier
This room looks like a war zone. My god. What the hell happened here?
Beer and wine bottles litter the floor. A chair has toppled over, probably due to the weight of wet towels someone thoughtlessly draped across the back.
Every food group from the gas station convenience store is well represented. We’ve got your basic snack cakes—Twinkies and Devil Dogs. There’s the chip family of snacks, several packages of Cheetos, Doritos, and Who-Would-Eat-Those. Crumbs are scattered across the bedspread as if put there to feed the birds.
Clothes carpet the floor, making it impossible to tell what’s clean and dirty. I see a few half-empty Gatorade bottles, likely mixed with vodka. And that’s the stuff that’s easy to clean.
When I took this job, George Bishop, the former owner (former because he’s dead), didn’t explain that I’d have to deal with the worst waste humanity had to offer. But here I am. Ready to deal.
I go to my cart, which I’ve parked in the hallway. It’s packed with all the stuff you’d expect to find on a maid’s cart—sheets, towels, sanitizer, window cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, your basic dusting and polishing cloths, etc., etc. But what I need for this room is a hazmat suit. I text Rodrigo. He’s the front desk manager and my only friend at work—really one of my only friends in town.
OMG the Magnolia Room. Come. You won’t believe your eyes.
I can’t believe my nose, either. I’ve been to bus stations that smelled better.
I should be used to it by now. I’ve done this job long enough. In my time working at the Precipice Hotel (so named for its precarious perch at the edge of Gull Hill, overlooking the ocean in Jonesport, Maine), I’ve learned to deal with the indignities that come with being a hotel maid.
The guests, like any animal, always leave a trail, but some are worse than others. I’ve cleaned up blood, puke, spit … and yeah, semen. We call condoms swimming in the toilet bowl “whitefish,” and I’ve seen my fair share.
I’m good at my job. I make rooms look like they’ve never been touched. I’m like a CSI investigator in reverse. I’m the one you pay to make the crime scene disappear.
Best part of my job is the short commute to work. I actually live at the hotel, in a little room off the kitchen that was once a utility closet or pantry. There’s about as much privacy as there is space, but I can’t beat the rent, which is free. I don’t love sleeping under a cloud of bacon grease and sautéed onions, but you get what you pay for.
It’s not all bad. My room is large enough to hold a bed, a few boxes, a bookcase, and a hissing, spitting old radiator.
At least I don’t have to cook. That’s not my thing. As long as I like what Olga, our chef, makes for the guests, I’m always well fed. I have everything I need to live a comfortable life here. I guess you could say I’m the only permanent guest of the Precipice Hotel.
George Bishop offered me these accommodations as part of my employment package. I was seventeen. I should have been more cautious, but I was naïve and desperate. Bad combo. I figured George was desperate as well. It’s not easy getting reliable help, especially up here in Maine where the population is older and young people drop from the state census like leaves in autumn. It took me about six months to realize that George’s offer of free room and board, plus my wages and tips, was little more than a trap.
This shouldn’t be my life.
That’s often my first thought as the workday begins. I’m not even twenty yet. My back shouldn’t feel like a mule kicked it. My knees shouldn’t creak like rusty hinges. My skin shouldn’t look vampire white. My long brown hair and brown eyes should have a little shine. I should have moved away from this town by now, built a life where I could go to parties, meet a boy, maybe enroll in college. But my Nana Kelley needs me and I need her, so I’m stuck here cleaning up other people’s messes—or in this case, disasters.
Rodrigo shows up a minute after getting my text. I haven’t touched anything yet. I need to gather my resolve first.
“Oh my god, Charley … I’m so sorry.”
Rodrigo places an arm around me like we’re at the wake of a beloved relative. “I thought Larry wasn’t coming until this weekend.”
I roll my eyes at his lame attempt at humor. “Not funny, and besides, the weatherman keeps saying that Larry’s gonna miss us.”
“Tell that to our guests. Pretty much everyone has canceled.”
“I sure wish these folks had,” I say, shaking my head with disgust. “What do you know about them, anyway?” I can’t mask my loathing.
“A couple from New York. I guess it’s their twentieth wedding anniversary.”
“That’s about how long it’s going to take me to clean this room.”
I’m exaggerating, of course. It’ll take no more than forty minutes from top to bottom, spick-and-span. I’m that good.
“Where are they now?”
There’s a reason for my question, but Rodrigo doesn’t know that.
“Downstairs, having breakfast,” he says. “Olga is grumbling about them, too. Evidently, their eggs were runny.”
“Olga grumbles about everyone,” I say, depositing a dustpan full of trash I’ve collected off the floor into the wastebasket on my cart.
“Do you want help?” Rodrigo asks.
“Yeah, call in the National Guard,” I say.
Instead, Rodrigo sends me a dimpled smile. He’s as swarthy and good-looking as his name sounds—dark hair, dark eyes, with a jawline chiseled from granite. Well-groomed doesn’t do him justice. Even with a scattering of scruff, he looks aristocratic, as if he were a prince masquerading as a front desk manager. He’s a few years older, and I definitely would have hooked up with him, or at least tried to, but I’m not really his type.
Too female.
Rodrigo has a big heart. He would have left this town ages ago if it weren’t for his mother, whom he helps support financially because it’s hard to earn a living at minimum wage—trust me, I know. Guess we have more in common than our place of employment.
After clearing away the wrappers and crumbs, I strip the bed, while Rodrigo sneers with contempt. “We should charge these guests with cruel and unusual punishment.” He offers this assessment from the doorway, refusing to set foot inside. His work uniform is stain-free, not so much as a wrinkle. In a few hours, my button-down blue scrub dress will look like someone used it as a napkin.
“It’s not the worst I’ve dealt with,” I say. Sadly, I’m not lying.
We have a total of fourteen guest rooms at the hotel: three on the first floor, eight on the second, and three more on the third floor. Each room is uniquely named based on a design theme. Occupancy is lower now that it’s September and the summer season is winding down. From May until Labor Day there are three maids on staff, but I’m the only year-round help.
While we’re situated off the beaten path, we have regular guests who return each season. Winter’s always a bit of a ghost town, but we get a few cross-country skiers and packs of snowmobilers making their way to Canada. Neither activity is my idea of fun, but to each their own.
Summer is when I make the bulk of my money, because tips and occupancy rates go hand in hand. There’s nothing quite like the promise of the white tip envelope we put in every room. My heart patters with hope at each encounter, though more often than not it’s anticlimactic. But still, there’s a definite thrill. Will it be a twenty inside, or will someone forgo the recommended three to five dollars per day of stay to slip me a forty for the week? Each time, it’s like Christmas morning wrapped up in 2-D packaging. Ironically, the messier a room, the lower the tips, or at least that’s been my experience. I’m sure the only thing these guests will leave me is more trash.
I’m not about to half-ass it just because I know my efforts won’t be appreciated. I’m a professional, and this job means everything to me because it means everything to my Nana Kelley. She’s all I have left in this world.
Well, Nana and Rodrigo, and he understands my situation. He knows what an evil prick George Bishop was, too. Not that I had anything to do with the man’s death, but good riddance to him. Nana would probably smack me upside the head if she heard me speak ill of the dead, but if I told her all the stuff George did (or tried to do) to me while he was alive, she’d probably pull him out of his icebox at the morgue and give his cold, dead cheek a hard backhand.
Even with Larry on the move, George’s three daughters are coming to Jonesport to bury their dad. I suppose they’ll get details on their inheritance as well, which I assume includes the Precipice. Nobody is telling me to have the hotel spotless for their arrival, but I don’t need reminders. I can’t make a bad first impression. I’m assuming Victoria, Iris, and Faith Bishop are going to be my new bosses. Lord knows, they can’t be worse than my last.
“I would stay and help you clean,” Rodrigo says, “but I’m super trying to avoid MRSA. You understand, right?”
He waves goodbye to me from the doorway. I give him the finger.
Truth is, I’m glad he’s gone. I’ve got work to do. With the bed stripped, I inspect the mattress for stains. That’s usually good for a bribe because the hotel charges a substantial fee for damages, but this one is surprisingly clean. I make the bed, which I could do blindfolded. After folding the clothes, bagging the dirty laundry (gloves on, of course), I wipe all visible surfaces using my cleaning cloths.
I need to be efficient cleaning the bathroom. I enter wielding my Clorox bottle like an Old West sheriff stepping into a showdown. After I’ve finished, the chrome is so shiny there’s not a single watermark to be found. Next, I hurriedly replace the towels, soaps, and water glasses, restock the tea and coffee, and make sure the DO NOT DISTURB sign is hung on the inside doorknob.
When that’s done, I fluff the pillows, adjust the curtains so they look straight, and reset the temp to our standard 68 degrees. Last is vacuuming. I always vacuum last to collect the dust particles I kick up while cleaning.
I step back to assess my efforts, pleased with the results. That’s the crazy part. Even though the job is backbreaking, aging me at an accelerated rate, I still take pride in my work.
The room looks pristine, but there’s one more thing I have to do.
I check the time. Good. Very good.
Then I say my mantra, like always: I’m doing this for her … I don’t have a choice.
I steal a quick peek into the hallway. The coast is clear, but it might not be for long. Then I check the dresser drawers. In the bottom one, I find what I’m hoping to see—a brown wallet resting atop a pile of underwear.
My heart is pounding. I shouldn’t do this. I know better. It’s at this point I hate myself the most. But I’m not doing this to go on a shopping spree.
I listen for footsteps in the hall as I retrieve the wallet from the drawer. All is quiet. I pry the billfold open. There’s a lot of cash inside. I add it up quickly, counting one hundred seventy-five dollars.
I won’t take it all, that would raise a red flag, but I can take forty—two tens and a twenty—that I doubt will be missed. Somehow the guests leave just enough cash lying around for me to nab fives, tens, and twenties that usually make up for my monthly shortfall.
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