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THIRTEEN

NATALIE

Trixy the Rat throws suspicious leers at me when I check myself out in the living room mirror.

It’s six in the morning, Friday. At my previous job, this would’ve been one of the busiest days of the week and most profitable when it comes to tips. The job of a housekeeper is humbling, but I don’t remember the last time I was so uneasy about my job.

My uniform is definitely uptight. Black dress pants, black slip-on shoes, a black button-up, plus the stupid white neckerchief that I bought at a dollar store. My dark hair is neatly swept back into a tight ponytail, loose strands secured by hairpins. Minimal makeup.

Before leaving, I clean out my purse, and a card falls out:

Detective Lesley Dupin,

Jersey City Police Department .

I wonder if I should give her a call, tell her what I’m up to. But she might want to start investigating, show up at The Splendors, mention me or Cara. That would be a disaster.

I decide against it. Also, I probably shouldn’t be carrying a detective’s card in my purse while I’m at The Splendors. I drop it on the table, but just in case, I punch the detective’s number into my phone and save it under “Dupin.”

“Keep an eye on things,” I tell Trixy the Rat and leave my apartment.

I stop by the local bakery around the corner and get blueberry muffins, Cara’s favorite. It’s a silly thing to do, considering Cara is in a coma. As I drive to the hospital, the delicious smell spreads through the car, jolting back memories of our routine mornings. It makes the lump in my throat grow bigger, my eyes burning with tears.

She’ll make it. She’ll make it. She’ll make it.

“No progress,” the nurse says when I walk into Cara’s hospital room. “Oh, and those…” Her brows knit together in pity as she looks at the box of muffins in my hand. “They are not?—”

“I know,” I cut her off softly. “I’ll just leave them by her bed for a bit. Please don’t get rid of them right away. It’s breakfast time. These are her favorite.” I smile apologetically. “I know, it’s silly. It’s just…” I’m ready to burst into tears as I look at the motionless Cara, surrounded by tubes and monitors, while I’m talking about stupid muffins.

The nurse nods in understanding, and as soon as she leaves the room, I set the box of muffins on the small table by Cara’s bed and force a smile onto my face.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you, babe?”

It’s so heart-wrenching—talking to her in a coma, pointlessly smiling. After what happened to Lindsey, I prayed I’d never hear those awful sounds again—the beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the ventilator.

My chest tightens. A sob breaks free.

Oh, god, I’m going to cry. No, I’m not. I’m not going to cry. I won’t.

I take a deep breath and hold it to stop the tears, but they are already spilling down my cheeks.

“It’ll be fine,” I murmur between sobs and rush out of the room, unable to be there any longer, feeling angry that I can’t handle this well, and helpless, so utterly helpless.

I’m sorry , I repeat in my mind. For being so weak. For being alive while one of my friends is dead, and the other one is close to it.

It’s all because of him . I need to meet Geoffrey Rosenberg. I should use my looks to get his attention. There’s a downside to being attractive—yes, there is such a thing. I found that out by bartending in fancy places and having to say no to the drunk advances of men who think that their wealth gives them unlimited power. Occasionally, it backfired. At one of my jobs, an arrogant drunk accused me of serving him cheap booze and siphoning the expensive one just to get back at me for rejecting his advances.

What I heard at the mansion yesterday is a much darker story. Apparently, Darla, the previous housekeeper, got too close to Rosenberg and got hurt. She might not make it. That’s worse than getting fired. That sounds like… a murder attempt.

Maybe that’s what that shady guy who got into a fight with security last night was alluding to. Maybe he’s Darla’s relative? I doubt anyone will tell me his name.

I did sit down last night and draw a simple plan of the mansion as I remembered it. I marked the cameras that I noticed—six in total. That gave me several ways to move around the mansion through the staff quarters with minimal notice. We’ll see how that works out.

The sky is gray. It rained all night, and it’s still drizzling, but it’s supposed to be sunny later on. The radio is blaring in my car as I’m driving to work. The talk-show host goes on and on about crypto stocks spiking in the last two days.

“Money, money, money, money,” he rants. “We love to hate it, but we can’t live without it.”

“Money doesn’t make one happy,” a caller says, an older woman who begins spewing seasoned wisdom about life.

The host interrupts her. “Clearly, you never had any. It’s not the money that matters but its quantity. ” He laughs triumphantly.

The caller starts arguing, and I kill the radio. They are both right and wrong.

As I pull up to the gate of The Splendors Mansion, Dave opens it and gives me an unwelcome stare through the booth window.

Dude, get over it.

During the half-hour ride from the hospital, my mood has done a full 180. I’m determined to find out what my rich boss is up to.

I roll down the window as I pull up beside the security booth. “Rough night?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Next time this happens, maybe call the actual professionals to handle it? Law enforcement or something?”

I can see anger boiling in him, and I drive into The Splendors with my signature work smile. By the time I finish working here, my face will hurt from fake smiling.

The buzz of the lawnmower is coming from behind the house. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure no one ever mows wet grass. This whole place is out of whack.

I park and walk into the house.

The mansion is eerily silent, like a tomb. I put my purse in the locker and check the staff kitchen.

“Hi!” I say, getting a nod from Rosalie, who’s hustling with boxes and crates of delivered catering supplies. I don’t understand why the catering company doesn’t just take care of everything. But then, I’m not one to make recommendations on how to handle business in the house of a man whose privacy is ensured by a mile-long list of NDAs and security checks.

Julien is nowhere to be seen, which makes me relax a bit—I already prepared myself for a day of marching to his war drum.

I didn’t see the black Maybach at the front either, which means Rosenberg and Nick are gone. Again. I haven’t even gotten a glimpse of my new boss yet.

“Let’s get to it,” Rosalie says, interrupting my thoughts.

The agenda for the first half of the day is to sort out the party supplies, silverware, and decorate the back terrace later. This gives me an opportunity to chat Rosalie up.

“Have you done this all your life?” I ask, meaning this type of job.

“Not quite,” she responds.

Rosalie comes across as humble, but there’s a certain authoritativeness about her. I would picture her doing something completely different. Maybe working at the Department of Motor Vehicles, with that calm attitude and impassive expression. She could be a 911 operator. Maybe even a parole officer. Yes, Rosalie could definitely be a parole officer, one of those who gives you a piss jar to collect your urine for a drug test, does it with a no-nonsense face, and actually watches you in the process to make sure you don’t cheat.

She is definitely a listener. Almost every one of my questions gets avoided and redirected back at me.

“You grew up around here?” I ask.

“No,” Rosalie answers. “You don’t look like a local either. Not a city girl. Not a Jersey one. Where are you from?”

Just like that, every attempt of mine to get her to talk about herself only points back at me.

Not even an hour goes by before Julien walks in.

Hello, officer. “Good morning,” I say, overly cheerful.

He scans me, then grabs an apple from a fruit basket, and loudly bites into it. “The boss is home,” he murmurs under his breath.

Just like that, Rosalie’s expression turns blank.

Loud voices come from the main hallway, and the door slams shut somewhere at the front of the house.

“Is that Mr. Rosenberg?” I ask, apparently talking to a wall, because no one responds. I glance between Julien and Rosalie, neither of whom meet my eyes.

This is probably the first workspace I’ve been to where all the staff look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. And that’s a bad sign.