Page 19

EIGHTEEN

NATALIE

Nick enters the kitchen, interrupting our chat.

“Boss and I are leaving,” he announces, then walks out, his whistling echoing in the hallway.

“We have some cleaning to do on the ground floor while they are gone,” Rosalie says curtly. “The library needs to be vacuumed and dusted.”

“Again?”

I’m positive that it had been done several days ago as per the schedule Rosalie showed me on my first day. She only cocks a brow with a silent warning.

“Sure,” I say obediently and go to the utility closet.

“Gloves!” Rosalie reminds me.

That’s another rule—mandatory nitrile gloves when cleaning the house. God forbid I leave a single fingerprint or a smudge behind!

Ugh.

I want to be angry about Rosalie monitoring me at all times, including during my lunch breaks. I know what I’m doing. But I need to be on my best behavior, so I tuck my pride away and head for the library, dragging the vacuum cleaner and a basket with dusting supplies.

At least I get a chance to explore a new room in this mansion.

The library is impressive. All the books are in perfect order, perfect color, perfect size. It’s like those fake bookends that you see in movies. Catching myself thinking that, I actually pull a book off a shelf to make sure it’s real. As I do, the entire row of them, light as a feather, pulls back.

They are fake!

I snort in amusement and look around the room with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases along two opposite walls and a comfy chair in the center. If this is all fake, then why make a library at all?

It’s none of my business, I remind myself. Maybe Rosenberg has good taste in food but doesn’t read. Maybe he only reads numbers. Maybe, only on his computer. Who knows?

I start dusting the bookshelves, and only a minute goes by before something catches my attention. It’s an empty McDonald’s cup tucked between the bookcases.

“So much for being an international cuisine connoisseur,” I murmur as I pick it up, about to throw it into the trash bag, when a familiar smell catches my attention.

Working as a bartender for years makes your nose attuned to the smell of alcohol. How strong it is. What kind. The label. The quality.

Slowly, I bring the cup to my nose.

Oh, man. It’s booze, all right. I pop the plastic top off and sniff it properly—whiskey, it’s definitely whiskey.

An amused “huh” escapes my lips.

So, Rosenberg is not a cognac or bourbon guy after all.

I toss the cup into the garbage bag and ponder what this means. There’s a strict rule of no booze in the house. A rule enforced by our boss. A rule that everyone follows so as not to jeopardize their jobs. If the staff wanted to drink at work, they’d do it in the staff area, and there are plenty of places to hide booze there. So this is not the staff’s doing. There haven’t been any visitors since I started working here either. This leaves me with a very obvious conclusion—Mr. Rosenberg, the genius behind IxResearch, is a closet drunk.

There’s nothing funny about a person’s addiction, but we are talking about a potential predator. I just found something I can use against him. I make a mental note to buy a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and keep it hidden in my car, in case it comes in handy.

I keep dusting. I’ve never been a fanatic about cleaning, but in the last two days, I’ve realized that dusting is the worst, second only to scrubbing toilets. I have bristle dusters, cloths, a feather duster, an air bulb, cotton swabs, and that doesn’t begin to name the multiple cleaning solutions. This place doesn’t have any dust, I swear, yet I’m pretty sure Rosalie goes around with a white glove and drags her forefinger along every surface for traces of dirt.

So I keep diligently dusting.

Art is the worst. I don’t know which pieces are extremely expensive, so I treat them all like they are priceless. Including the stupid spider-looking flower with big gaudy rubies on its branches that stick out of the wall in different directions. Annoyed, I swipe my feather duster a little harder.

That’s when one of the red stones pops off and falls to the floor.

My breath hitches in my throat. I stare in panic as it rolls off, and then something else happens—it snaps into two pieces.

No! No-no-no-no!

I get on my knees, reaching for it with my fingers, and freeze.

I’m not an expert, but I have a pretty good idea of what I’m staring at. I’m not paranoid, and I’m not making this up, because the tiny object that has separated from the art piece is definitely a camera.

“Oh, crap.”

Instantly, fear steals the air out of my lungs. I pull my hand away and stare at the object, then get on all fours and bring my face closer, my nose almost touching the floor.

My first thought is that this room is supposed to be camera-free, so clearly, this is a hidden camera.

My next thought is that this might be one of many.

The next thought makes my stomach drop—whoever is watching this camera will see that I was the one who knocked it off and discovered what it was.

The thought that follows is—who can I tell? Does anyone know? What if they do, and I blabber about it, only to get myself in trouble? What if they don’t, and I will end up getting everyone in trouble? What if I’m already in trouble, and I end up like Cara? Or Darla?

My thoughts race a mile a minute, my heart beating so hard in my chest that I think I’m having a panic attack.

“Think,” I tell myself, still on all fours like a dog sniffing the ground.

I lean just a little bit closer and study the camera piece. It’s a small black square, about an inch across, with a round lens and some sort of goo behind it—probably the adhesive that held it in place. The camera sits on its side, the lens pointing away from me.

Okay, good. That means that I haven’t stared directly at the camera yet, which means I still have a chance of acting oblivious to it. That is, if there aren’t other cameras watching me right now.

Maybe not everything is lost yet.

Holding my breath as if it will blow the camera away, I retreat on all fours away from it, then slowly rise to my feet.

Okay. Okay. I got this.

I take a deep breath, put the duster away, pick up the vacuum cleaner, and plug it in. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I turn it on and start vacuuming the carpet. I purposefully vacuum a distance away from the little eye on the floor but in its direct view. I force the vacuum in front of the camera, knowing exactly where it is but never looking in its direction. After thoroughly vacuuming in front of it, I swallow hard, take in a deep breath, and run the vacuum over the red stone, then over the camera piece on the floor.

As soon as they are sucked in with a horrible crackling sound, I close my eyes and exhale, taking my time to catch my breath as the vacuum keeps going. I’m playing dumb and hoping that it works.

I did it. It’s all good. It will work out.

At this point, I wonder if I should walk out of this mansion and never come back. If anything else suspicious comes along, I will ask for my pay and do just that.

But there’s a party tomorrow. I need money. And I need to get any damning information possible on Rosenberg.

One more day, I tell myself. Those who fall victim rarely know the predators they are dealing with. I do. What’s the worst that can happen?