The Nanny's Invasion

My name is Wendy Lincoln, I'm thirty years old, and I rent a two-bedroom apartment downtown where I live alone. Work keeps me so busy I barely have time to breathe, and my place is always a mess, so I decided to hire a housekeeper to come regularly. Through the residential complex's property management, I was introduced to Lily Warren. She's in her early fifties, dark-skinned, with a humble smile, and said she's been cleaning for over ten years and is absolutely trustworthy. Seeing her honest face, I didn't think twice and signed a three-month contract for her to come twice a week, two hours each time. During the first month, Lily Warren was flawless. The floors shone so much you could see your reflection, the windows were spotlessly clean, and even the kitchen grease stains were wiped away completely. I quietly felt lucky to have found the right person and sometimes handed her unopened snacks to take home to her kids. Things started to change in the second month. The imported cookies I left on the coffee table—though I had only eaten two—were gone when I got home next time, leaving just empty boxes. I figured I must have been mistaken and didn't think much of it. But strange things kept happening after that. Two lipstick samples on the vanity were missing, the face cream sample had vanished without a trace, and even an unopened travel-sized shower gel in the bathroom was gone. I started paying close attention, quietly noting where things were placed before Ms. Warren began cleaning each time. That day, after she finished and left, I noticed another small perfume bottle missing from the drawer and immediately called her. "Ms. Warren, have you seen the perfume sample from my drawer?" I tried to keep my tone calm. There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then Lily Warren replied casually, "Oh, that? I saw it had been sitting there untouched for a long time and figured it would expire and go to waste, so I just took it with me." "But I was planning to take that on my business trip." I frowned. "Next time before I take something you don't use, I'll let you know." After hanging up, I felt unsettled. These things really weren't valuable, but taking them without telling me made me very uncomfortable. I pulled out the contract and saw it was due to expire in a month. Thinking it's better to avoid trouble, I decided to tough it out for this month and just not renew the contract. Over the weekend, Lily Warren came to clean. I made a point of organizing the vanity in front of her and half-joked, "These little samples might seem insignificant, but I save them for when I travel—it'd be a problem if any went missing." Her hands paused for a moment, a smile spreading across her face: "Ms. Lincoln, don't worry. I definitely won't touch your things next time." But deep down, I knew she wasn't really taking my words to heart. Because a week later, the imported chocolates I'd left in the fridge were already down by more than half. A week before the three-month contract was set to end, a friend sent me a box of desserts. The crust was thin and the filling generous, sweet but not overpowering. I couldn't bring myself to eat much, so I tried just one piece and then placed the rest in the cabinet in the living room. On Wednesday, Lily Warren came to clean, and I specifically told her she didn't need to touch anything inside the cabinet. That night, after working late and coming home, the first thing I did was check the dessert, and sure enough, the box was empty. I was trembling with anger and about to call Lily Warren when her phone call came through first. "Ms. Lincoln, please save my son!" Her heart-wrenching sobs came through the phone. I was stunned. "Ms. Warren, what's going on?" "My son, Leo Warren, ate your dessert today. Now he's vomiting and having diarrhea, and he's receiving an IV at the hospital!" She sobbed, gasping for breath. "The doctor said he ate expired food. Is your dessert spoiled? You have to cover my medical bills!" I could hardly believe my ears. That box of dessert was just made by a friend and sent with an ice pack—there's no way it could be expired. "Ms. Warren, please calm down," I said, fighting back my anger. "The dessert was made by my friend just last week; it's absolutely not expired. Could your son have eaten something else?"