The concrete floor of the laundry room was always cold, even in July.

My cot sat between the industrial dryer and a stack of plastic bins.

For six months, this small, windowless space in the basement of the Whitmore estate had been my home.

Above us, the main house of the estate in Greenwich smelled of beeswax and expensive lilies.

Down here, it smelled of bleach and damp stone.

I smoothed down the apron of my uniform, trying to wipe the gray dust from my hands.

Through the heavy oak door at the end of the hall, I heard the muffled laughter of Margaret’s dinner guests.

My three daughters, Olivia, Grace, and Lily, were not allowed upstairs.

They were currently locked in the small pantry at the back of the basement kitchen, a punishment Margaret had devised because six-year-old Lily had spilled a glass of water.

I walked out of the laundry room and stood in the corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I needed to get the key from Margaret.

The heavy door at the top of the stairs opened, throwing a shaft of bright, warm light down the concrete steps.

Margaret Whitmore descended, her silk dress rustling against the stone walls.

Her diamond necklace caught the light, glittering in the dim hallway.

Behind her walked Thomas Vale, the family lawyer, his leather briefcase clutched tightly under his arm.

“Emily,” Margaret said, her voice sharp and cold.

“I told you to finish starching the table linens before the dessert course.”

“The linens are done, Margaret,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Please. Let me have the key to the pantry. The girls have been in there for three hours.”

Margaret stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes narrowing.

“They are learning discipline, something their late father failed to provide them,” she said.

“They are children,” I said, my voice trembling. “Olivia is only eight. She’s terrified of the dark.”

Thomas Vale cleared his throat, looking down at his polished leather shoes.

“Mrs. Carter, it is best not to argue with Mrs. Whitmore,” Vale murmured.

Margaret stepped closer, the scent of her expensive French perfume mixing with the smell of damp concrete.