The Blinding Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

then? Whatever it is, stop it.
    Sincerely,
    P. Stanford.
     
     
    Dear Mr. P. Stanford,
The dishwasher is fixed.
I have checked the Housekeepers Inc. employee manual. There is nothing in there about your housekeeper being required to wear perfume. I have consulted with several people in my acquaintance and they assure me I do not smell offensive. What is it that is objectionable to you?
    Sincerely,
    Your Housekeeper.
     
     
    Dear Mrs. Huntley,
I never said “offensive.”
    Sincerely,
    P. Stanford.
    I stared in confusion at the note I received Friday morning. Firstly, it was the shortest note I had ever received from the man. Secondly, it had no extra instructions whatsoever. I felt let down. Wasn’t there anything for him to complain about? Damn.
    And what in the hell did he mean? I never said “offensive”?

Chapter 5

     
     
    M Y THIRD week on the job at Mr. Stanford’s brought no news. He wrote me notes; I wrote back. He dirtied the house; I cleaned it. He didn’t complain to my boss, and neither did I. Mrs. West rang me twice to make sure everything was working out. I assured her it was.
    The Gardie Tav was rocking all weekend, but there had been no sign of Luke since I ripped one at him. I wondered if that meant I had scared him off or managed to talk some sense into him.
    The following Wednesday, things went south. Not in a bad way. I guess you could say things took a U-turn.
     
     
    I PEDALED to work in the warm October sun. It was spring in Western Australia and that meant warm days and plenty of flowers. Bees worked hard in the gardens gathering pollen, birds fluttered in the trees feeding their growing families, and the soil took on this great smell that was warm and damp. In two months’ time, the earth would be hot and scorched, puffing for any hint of moisture, but for now the plants flourished.
    The older suburbs where Mr. Stanford lived had been planted decades ago with rows of jacaranda trees. In a couple of weeks, they would all be dropping their leaves and producing bright purple flowers, but for now the trees were green and leafy. I rode under their canopy and whistled a tune.
    Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as I wheeled my bike up the path to the Stanford house and propped it against the wall. It was perfectly normal when I put my keys into the front door and unlocked the deadbolt. Everything was distinctly standard.
    The first inkling of something wrong came when I punched in the code on the alarm panel. All the appliances in Mr. Stanford’s house talked and the alarm was no different. Usually the device would beep at me three times and intone, “Disarmed,” at me. Today it beeped once and told me, “Deactivated.”
    I stared at it in confusion. It looked normal. All the lights had stopped blinking as usual, but why had it told me “deactivated” instead of “disarmed”?
    A clicking and a faint tinkle behind me in the hallway had me spinning around in fear. I turned to see an unfamiliar dog watching me warily. The dog was a golden Labrador, and although it wasn’t acting aggressively, I didn’t like the way its hackles were raised and the way it was standing in the doorway.
    I held my hand out hesitantly and crooned in a gentle voice. “Hey, boy. What are you doing here?”
    The dog didn’t shift an inch but my eye caught some movement in the hallway. I looked up and was staggered. Emerging from the bedroom was a half-naked, blond God wearing only cotton boxer shorts and holding his head in one hand as if it was about to fall off and roll down the street. The guy was so gorgeous and toned that I forgot to be scared at the fact that he was in Mr. Stanford’s house until he growled at me in a menacing manner.
    The man, not the dog.
    “Who the fuck are you?”
    I licked my lips and tried not to stare at his chest. “The fucking housekeeper. Who the fuck are you?”
    He looked at me then. His eyes were piercing blue but unfocused. He looked stunned. His voice was less abrasive and