El Secreto de la Asistenta / La asistenta 2

My new job is almost perfect. The Garricks' penthouse is a stunning, silent world of antique furniture and skyline views, a place where I can quietly earn my keep and stay invisible. It's hard to find an employer who doesn't ask too many questions about my past, and Douglas Garrick didn't ask a single one. But I still haven't met his wife. Wendy is sick, he explained, recovering in the guest bedroom. I'm sure I hear her crying sometimes. When I do the laundry, I notice small, dark spots of blood around the necks of her white nightgowns. “She's sensitive to smells,” Douglas tells me. “If the door is closed, just leave her alone.”

One day, I can't help but knock. The door gently swings open, and what I see inside changes everything. Her face is a canvas of bruises in different stages of healing - angry purple on her cheekbone, sickly yellow along her jaw. “It's from my medications,” she insists, her voice a strained whisper. “I had a fall.” But her eyes tell a different story, one of pure terror. She warns me away, telling me I have no idea what I'm dealing with, but I can't walk away. I soon learn the truth: she found my name through a woman I'd helped years ago, another wife desperate to escape. Wendy hired me because she knows what I can do.

The plan is simple. Douglas is leaving for a business trip, a window of opportunity for Wendy to disappear. I rent a car - a painfully conspicuous red Hyundai - and drive her toward a new life, a friend's farm upstate where she can hide. She's giddy with freedom, eating fast food for the first time in years. But as we drive, I feel a prickling unease, the sense that a black Mazda with a cracked headlight is following us, the same car I've seen lurking near my own apartment. I tell myself I'm paranoid, but Wendy's warning echoes in my head: “Douglas is an extremely dangerous man… he will do whatever it takes to find me.”

Days later, a frantic call shatters my peace. “I'm back,” Wendy sobs into the phone. “He brought me back.” I race to the penthouse, my heart pounding against my ribs. The apartment is dark and silent until I hear a sickening crash from upstairs, followed by a scream. I find them in the guest bedroom. He has his hands wrapped around her throat, her face turning a horrifying shade of blue. I remember the gun she showed me, hidden inside a hollowed-out dictionary. With shaking hands, I grab it. “Let her go or I'll shoot,” I scream, but he doesn't stop squeezing. I have no choice. I pull the trigger.

As the gunshot echoes through the silent apartment, he collapses. “He's dead,” Wendy whispers, a strange smile on her face. She convinces me to run, promising to wipe my fingerprints and tell the police she shot an intruder. But the next day, detectives are at my door. They have a warrant. Wendy has told them a different story: that I was having an affair with her husband and killed him in a jealous rage. The evidence is damning - a burner phone, an expensive bracelet, a motel receipt from the night I helped her escape. It's all a lie, but it's her word against mine. Watching the news, I see a photograph of the murdered CEO, Douglas Garrick. My blood runs cold. I have never seen that man before in my life.

You must think I'm a terrible person. The truth is, my husband Douglas was never abusive; he was just a clueless, sweet-natured nerd I married for his money. The man Millie saw me with, the man she “killed,” was my lover, Russell. We staged the entire thing. The bruises were makeup, the arguments were a performance, all designed to lure a woman with a history of vigilantism into our trap. The plan was for Millie to shoot Russell with a blank, a crime she would confess to, leaving me free to kill the real Douglas and inherit his fortune.

Everything was perfect. I killed my real husband, and with Millie's fingerprints on the gun, the police had their killer. But my perfect plan had one fatal flaw: Douglas had changed his will, leaving his entire estate to charity. My reward for all this scheming was nothing. Furious and desperate, I retreated with Russell to his lakeside cabin to figure out our next move, only to find we were not alone.

The lights in the cabin go out. In the terrifying dark, Russell is murdered, his throat slit in the bathtub. I think Millie has come for revenge, but when a flash of lightning illuminates my attacker's face, I see it is not Millie at all, but Marybeth - Russell's wife and Douglas's loyal assistant. She knows everything. She tells me I deserve to die a slow, painful death, just as my vision begins to blur and my stomach cramps. “Have you ever heard of a medication called digoxin?” she asks with a chilling smile. The wine. She poisoned the wine.

I didn't go to the cabin that night. After I learned Wendy had framed me, I paid a visit to Marybeth. I told her everything - about her husband's affair, about their plot to murder her boss. I watched the grief and fury build in her eyes, and then I offered her a solution. The extra bottle of digoxin pills my ex-boyfriend Brock kept in my medicine cabinet was all she needed. Wendy Garrick made an incredibly bad judgment call. She thought I was a pawn in her game, someone she could manipulate and discard. She underestimated an extremely dangerous person. Me. And she paid the ultimate price.