THE MAID E-Book

Claire Smith

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 111

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Maid: A Psychological Thriller of Secrets and Survival Anya was just supposed to clean—blend in, stay quiet, and disappear. But when she discovers a hidden network of lies, power, and murder inside the walls of an elite high-rise, her past resurfaces, and survival becomes her only goal. Every room hides a secret. Every face is a mask. And Anya? She’s not who they think she is. Fast-paced and spine-chilling, The Maid is a gripping psychological thriller that dives into the darkness of identity, manipulation, and the cost of knowing too much. Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train and Behind Closed Doors.

Leseprobe

CLAIRE SMITH

THE MAID

A Psychological Thriller of Secrets and Survival

First published by GINNIE WRITES PUBLICATIONS 2025

Copyright © 2025 by CLAIRE SMITH

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

CLAIRE SMITH asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Printing and distribution on behalf of the author:

tredition GmbH, Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany

Publication and distribution are carried out on behalf of the author, who can be reached at: No. 22 okerre Road warri, Virginia Igweneme, 330102 Warri, Germany.

Contact address according to EU Product Safety Regulation: [email protected]

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy Find out more at reedsy.com

“Clean enough to sparkle. Dirty enough to bury a secret.”

“To watch without being seen is the most dangerous power of all.”

“You’d be amazed what people say when they think you’re nobody.”

“The truth doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it waits… in silence, in shadow, in scrubbed floors.”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Quiet Ones

Chapter 2

Penthouse 46B

Chapter 3

Fingerprints and Ghosts

Chapter 4

Don’t Speak Unless Spoken To

Chapter 5

A Perfect Suicide

Chapter 6

The Hidden Compartment

Chapter 7

Routine, Interrupted

Chapter 8

The Man in the Elevator

Chapter 9

Her Real Name

Chapter 10

A Key She Shouldn’t Have

Chapter 11

The Wife’s Diary

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Floor Twenty-Four

Chapter 14

The Whisper Network

Prologue

chapter-seperator

The Maid

There is a particular kind of silence that exists only in the homes of the ultra-wealthy — a cold, curated hush that no one dares disturb. Not the owners, who speak in lowered voices and glide across polished floors like ghosts. Not the guests, who pretend not to see the lives behind the glass. And certainly not the help.

Alina has learned to live inside that silence. She wears it like a second skin. She arrives at 7:03 a.m., as always. Never too early, never too late. The building’s elevator greets her with a soft chime, its mirrored walls reflecting a version of herself she barely recognizes: neat bun, spotless uniform, face composed into something that could be politeness or invisibility, depending on who’s looking. She presses the button for Penthouse 46B, careful not to smudge the panel with her glove. No one sees her enter. No cameras in the service elevator, by design. No doorman glance. No resident chatter. The cart squeaks once as she pushes it down the hallway, a single rubber wheel protesting the marble like a guilty conscience.

The lock clicks open — her master key working as it always has — and she steps into the penthouse. Immediately, she knows something’s wrong. The air smells wrong. Not just stale, not just lived-in. There’s a sharp edge beneath the lavender diffuser scent, something metallic and sour. She pauses on the threshold. A bottle of Château Margaux lies shattered near the kitchen island, dark red soaking into the pale grout. Glass shards glint like slivers of ice. A silk scarf is draped over the back of a dining chair. One heel — Louboutin, she notes automatically — is on its side near the rug. The matching shoe is nowhere in sight.

These people don’t leave messes. Alina steps in carefully, her gloved hand still gripping the edge of the cart. She doesn’t call out. That’s not her role. Maids don’t speak unless spoken to. Her presence here this morning wasn’t officially on the roster; a last-minute scheduling glitch had her flagged for a different unit. But she came here anyway. She always does. Routine is survival. She checks the kitchen first. Clean, aside from the wine. Two empty glasses in the sink. A single lipstick stain on one. A faint coffee ring on the quartz counter.

Someone else was here last night. Her gaze flicks to the security panel by the door. The light is green — system disabled. She stares at it longer than necessary. Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen. Then, slowly, she moves down the hall. She hears nothing. Not the quiet thrum of the HVAC, not the white noise machines most residents keep by their bedrooms. Just the sound of her own breathing, measured and shallow. The door to the master suite is ajar. And then she sees her. The woman is lying on her back across the bed, her arms spread loosely at her sides. A crimson silk robe clings to one shoulder, revealing pale skin and bruised knees. Her lips are parted, lipstick smudged at the corners. There’s a glass tumbler tipped onto the carpet, and a bottle of Diazepam beside it — half-empty. A silver tray on the nightstand holds a folded napkin, two untouched macarons, and a small monogrammed card.

S. W. — the initials shimmer in gold. Selene Whitmore. Wife of tech mogul Julian Whitmore. Thirty-six. Former model. Philanthropist. A name that lives in headlines and fashion spreads. Alina has seen her in person only three times. Once in the lobby, twice at charity events covered in glossy magazines. But she’s cleaned this unit dozens of times. She knows Selene’s patterns. The way she organizes her jewelry by emotional value, not price. The way she stacks her books horizontally instead of vertically. The way she leaves one window slightly open at night, even in winter, because she likes to feel the city breathing.

This isn’t how Selene would have died.

It’s too… obvious.

Too staged.

Alina moves to the edge of the room, keeping her distance. She catalogues everything with quick, precise eyes — the way the bedsheets are turned down only halfway, the faint drag marks on the carpet near the chaise lounge, the smudge of powder on the inside of the glass. Her gaze drops lower, and something catches in her peripheral vision — a sliver of light beneath the bedframe. She crouches slowly, brushing back the duvet.

A gold money clip.

Out of place.

She doesn’t touch it.

Her breath fogs slightly in the chilled air. The thermostat reads 65 — colder than usual. Another detail. She rises, backs out of the bedroom. Her throat feels dry.

She should leave.

She should call the front desk. Or security. Or the police.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she walks back to her cart. Unzips the side pocket. Pulls out a fresh pair of latex gloves — unpowdered, silent. She slips them on with practiced ease, then takes a roll of cleaning cloths and a spray bottle. Glass cleaner. Ammonia-based. She begins in the hallway, kneeling to pick up the first shard of wine bottle glass. Then another. Then another. Each piece clicks softly into the trash bag. She moves methodically, like a surgeon, like a ghost. Her expression does not change.

She doesn’t know how long she spends in the penthouse. The sun has climbed higher when she finally replaces the last pillow, fluffs the throw on the couch, and takes a final, sweeping look at the room. It is spotless.

Just as it was before.

Just as it should be.

And then she does something she rarely does. Something dangerous.

She sits.

At the edge of the kitchen stool, near the counter where the coffee ring had been.

She lets herself breathe.

Her hands are steady. Her eyes are sharp. And her mind — her mind is already solving it.

It wasn’t suicide.

Not with the wine glasses. Not with the security system turned off. Not with the money clip and the bruises and the careful, almost-too-careful layout of the scene. It was a performance. A deliberate, calculated lie. And Alina — the invisible maid — is the only one who saw it before the rest of the world gets to. Before the story is cleaned, edited, broadcast.

But she can’t tell anyone.

Not yet. Because the minute she opens her mouth, someone will start asking questions. About her name. About where she came from. About why there’s no trace of her before five years ago. No parents. No family. No social media footprint. No history.

She can’t afford that.

Not again.

So she will do what she does best.

She will stay quiet. She will clean. She will watch.

But this time, she will also hunt.

Because the person who did this — the person who turned Selene Whitmore into a headline — doesn’t know what they’ve done.

They left the body for the world to see.

But they forgot that someone like Alina would see everything else.

And someone else?

Someone still in this building?

Saw her.

Chapter 1

chapter-seperator

The Quiet Ones

Alina’s footsteps echoed quietly along the back corridor of the sprawling complex—a sound so soft it nearly blended with the hum of the building’s aging air conditioning. The events at Penthouse 46B still haunted her thoughts, replaying in muted recollections as she made her way to the small staff break room. Though the polished hallways and pristine surfaces were designed for a life of luxury, they hid undercurrents of secrets that only a keen observer like Alina could sense. Inside the break room, a single fluorescent light flickered above a long, narrow table. The room was a stark contrast to the opulence outside: chipped coffee mugs, a well-worn bulletin board filled with dated schedules, and the faint aroma of reheated food. Here, the quiet was a constant companion—a quiet that spoke of unseen dramas and stories locked behind closed doors.

Alina slid into a chair by the window, careful not to disturb the steady stream of whispered conversations among a few fellow staff members. Her eyes betrayed nothing as she greeted them with a nod. Today, however, the silence around her was not comfortable; it was heavy with a secret, the weight of which she had carried since the previous morning. A hush fell as Sofia, one of the more experienced housekeepers, approached with measured steps. “Alina,” Sofia began softly, her voice layered with concern, “I heard rumors about Unit 46B. They say something’s not right. Did you notice—” she paused, searching Alina’s impassive face for answers.

For a moment, Alina simply stared out the window, her mind momentarily drifting back to the shattered glass and the delicate balance of order and chaos in that immaculate room. “I did,” she said in a calm tone that belied the inner storm. “There’s a language in disarray—a pattern that screams of deliberate intent. I cleaned it as required, but I can’t shake the feeling that it was a message meant to be deciphered.”

Sofia’s eyes widened. “A message? What do you mean?”

Alina leaned forward, ensuring her tone remained confidential. “Every detail matters. The spilled wine, the scattered pills, the broken glass… they aren’t random accidents or a simple suicide. There’s a precision—a cold logic behind it. And I fear that someone, somewhere, is using these disturbances to communicate.” Her voice was low, underscored by a certainty that bordered on dread. Before Sofia could press further, the break room door swung open, admitting Mr. Carrington—the stern facility manager known for his unyielding manner and impeccable reputation. His footsteps were measured, and his gaze swept across the room before focusing on Alina.

“Alina, I need a word,” Mr. Carrington said, his tone clipped and authoritative. He turned towards the elevator bank as if expecting her to follow him immediately. Without another word, Alina rose, her thoughts still swirling with the complexities of the morning. She had learned not to dismiss any intuition—even if it meant stepping into a conversation that might unravel more than she wished to know.

In the softly lit corridor near the manager’s office, Mr. Carrington closed the door and waited, his eyes fixed on Alina. “I heard about the incident at 46B,” he said slowly. “What exactly did you find there?” Alina studied him for a moment. “The apparent suicide was too orchestrated, too… methodical. The room spoke of someone staging a scene. Every piece fell into place—except for the fact that it didn’t match the story one would expect from a personal tragedy.”

His expression hardened. “We’ve been over this before. It’s not your responsibility to deduce motives. Our cleaning protocols are designed to ensure nothing is left behind that might suggest foul play.” He paused and added, “I’m aware the authorities have been alerted, but we must focus on our work. The residents expect perfection.”

Alina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “With all due respect, Mr. Carrington, sometimes perfection conceals deeper turmoil. A pristine room might indicate that someone wanted us to clean up—not just a mess, but a message.”