She has been planning this.”
I reached into the pocket of my uniform and removed a small folded notebook.
I had started keeping it during my second week in the mansion.
At first, I recorded meals, allergies, school pickups, and household instructions.
Later, I began writing down the moments that frightened me: the date Patricia locked the playroom after Diego cried, the afternoon Sophia arrived at the kitchen with a red mark around her wrist, the morning both children begged me not to tell their father that they had broken a vase.
I had not written accusations.
I had written times, places, exact words, and what I observed.
My foster-care caseworkers had taught me that memory could be challenged, but dates were harder to dismiss.
I handed the notebook to Mr.
Arriaga.
Patricia stepped between us.
“You have no right to keep records about my family.”
I met her eyes.
“I kept records about my work.”
Mr.
Arriaga opened the notebook.
Several entries matched the dates on the camera system.
He checked one from two weeks earlier.
The notebook said that Sophia had refused to enter the dining room at 6:42 p.m.
because Patricia was waiting inside.
The camera showed Sophia standing outside that room at 6:41, hugging her schoolbag and whispering to Diego.
Another entry said Diego had hidden beneath the staircase after Patricia threatened to throw away his toy car.
The recording showed him crawling into the shadows with the car under his shirt.
Patricia watched the evidence connect piece by piece.
Her denial became anger.
“You brought a stranger into this house, and now she is spying on me.
Do you understand how dangerous that is? She could sell these stories.
She could demand money.”
“I have never asked you for money,” I said.
“You will.
People like you always do.”
The insult hung in the air.
For years, words like those had made me feel small.
Charity.
Ungrateful.
Replaceable.
People had used them to remind me that survival was something they could revoke.
This time, Sophia stepped beside me.
“She did not ask for anything,” she said.
Patricia turned on her.
“Go to your room.”
Sophia flinched, but she did not move.
Mr.
Arriaga stepped between them.
“No,” he said.
“You will not give her another order tonight.”
Patricia stared at him.
“This is my home too.”
“It is the children’s home,” he replied.
“And right now, they are afraid of you.”
She lowered her voice.
“Think carefully.
If you force me out, I will tell everyone what happened here.
I will say your employee manipulated the children while you neglected them.
I will make this public.”
Mr.
