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Maybe the phone was meant for her. It couldn’t have been meant for me because I haven’t received the other five hundred yet.

I look down at the screen again.

Delaney Cross didn’t listen. Finish it tonight.

I can’t throw the phone into the courtyard. Too many people go through there. Groundskeepers. Delivery drivers. Someone could find it. Worse, someone could see me throw it.

I need to hide it.

I slip the phone into the pocket of my uniform apron and then grab the envelope and shove it beneath my pillow with the cash still inside.

My heart pounds.

I hate that I’m keeping the money.

I hate that I’m not strong enough to put it back.

But my mother’s face rises in my mind. Five hundred dollars isn’t enough. Not even close. But it’s the difference between no and maybe.

I press both hands against my stomach and force myself to breathe.

One problem at a time.

The phone first.

Where can I hide a burner phone in Vexley House? A ridiculous question, really, because I know every nook and cranny of this house. After all, I clean it.

People who own houses like this never know their homes the way servants do. They know the grand staircase, the dining room where important people say important things over wine older than my mother. They know the pretty rooms. The rooms meant to be seen.

I know the rest.

I know where the floorboards lift near the east landing because they creak no matter how lightly you step. I know the hollows inside the large curtain rods in the blue salon. I know which fireplaces haven’t been used in years. I’ve found false backs in bookcases while dusting. Actual false backs.

The first time, I thought I’d broken something. I stood there with a rag in one hand and a carved panel slightly open beneath my fingers, certain I’d be fired before lunch.

Then I saw what was behind it.

Nothing. Just a narrow dark hollow.

Vexley House is full of those places. Hidden spaces. Locked doors.

I could hide the phone anywhere. But anywhere isn’t good enough.

It needs to be somewhere that, if someone finds it, it won’t automatically point to me.

Maybe close to Charlotte or Tiffany. The two of them have made my life miserable since the first week I arrived. They sneer when Audrey isn’t looking and smile when she is. They leave impossible tasks half finished and tell Audrey I forgot them. They whisper about my mother’s illness, making fun of her.

If one of them got involved with this phone and is in trouble?

Big deal.

What matters now is washing my hands of this before it spirals. Before someone expects me to finish anything. Before Delaney Cross’s name becomes tied to mine in a way I can’t explain.

I open my door and step into the hallway.

Charlotte’s door is closed. Tiffany’s door is closed. Hazel’s room, farther down, is quiet.

Hazel Fairchild has been here forever. Longer than Audrey. Possibly longer than some of the Vexleys. Charlotte and Tiffany treat her almost as badly as they treat me. I’ve never understood that. Hazel knows more about this place than all of us combined. Not a good idea to cross her.