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TWENTY-TWO

NATALIE

For most people, a party in a million-dollar mansion is a fun event. For service people, it’s the toughest day of the week.

For me? Well, this is probably my biggest opportunity to observe Geoffrey Rosenberg. There will be a hundred or so guests. People will be getting drunk. Meanwhile, I’ll get a chance to eavesdrop. I’m not the only one who thinks Rosenberg is dangerous. That’s confirmed. Good.

Play by the rules, I remind myself. Act normal.

That’s definitely tricky, considering there are more cameras in the house than what I was told about.

It’s Saturday. I’m up at sunrise. Despite my mind reeling with the thoughts about what this day is going to be like, I need to get to the hospital to see Cara.

The first stop is the local bakery. Today’s special is champagne-and-strawberry muffins. Cara is a muffin connoisseur. She would have spent her last dollar on this flavor. So I spend mine instead.

Next stop is the hospital.

“No news,” the nurse says.

Yeah, yeah. I ignore her.

“You’ll make it, babe,” I tell Cara as I set the box down on the side table. I take out one muffin and sit down in the chair by the bed. I don’t have much time, but I need to be here for at least a minute, to remind myself why I need to go back to The Splendors.

“Remember the fig-and-goat-cheese artisan muffins you once bought?” I ask Cara as I take a bite of the muffin. It’s delicious. “You said they smelled like goat diarrhea. Even Trixy refused to eat them.”

I smile to myself, taking another bite of the muffin. I won’t cry this time.

When I finish the muffin and leave, the room smells vaguely of strawberries. I hope that wakes Cara up. Silly, of course, but I’ll come here every day until she wakes up and recovers.

Powered up for the day, I drive to The Splendors.

The level of luxury at the mansion is just another reminder that money can cover up a lot of crime.

“Not this time, Rosenberg,” I say to myself when I step into the staff kitchen, ready to start the day. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, though I’m hoping for a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As soon as Rosalie gets me to help her wrap the silverware, I start a subtle interrogation. There’s got to be a way to get someone to explain the strange things around here.

“Do you know how many cameras are in the house?” I ask Rosalie.

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at me as she continues to methodically sort the silverware.

“I found a hidden one in the library,” I say cautiously.

That’s when she stiffens, panic flashing across her face, if only for a second. Slowly, she raises her eyes to me, her expression already rearranged into the usual professional mask.

But that momentary panic of hers is contagious, creeping down my spine. I realize that I might have just made a mistake. Have I?

Rosalie’s eyes dart to the door as if she’s making sure no one else is around, then return to me. “Did you tell anyone?”

On reflex, I look over my shoulder at the door, too. “Should I?” I ask in a hushed whisper, stepping closer to her. “So you know about it? How many cameras are there?”

Rosalie passes me the napkins for the silverware. “That’s what happened to Darla,” she says quietly, the words seemingly harmless but making my blood go cold. “She was in way over her head, careless, despite the rules.”

Jesus Christ! What is it about this house and the rules?

“Do me a favor, sweetie,” Rosalie whispers, stepping closer to me, her eyes locking with mine again. “Not a word about it to anyone. Understood?”

“Does anyone know? Besides you?”

She swallows hard, blood draining from her face.

“Natalie, listen to me,” she says more harshly. “I know how it sounds, and you can still walk out of here any moment, but you cannot —please, sweetie, for your own good—you cannot mention this to anyone. This”—she motions with her forefinger between her and me—“is where it ends. Right here. Now . No one else should know that you know.”

“What about Julien?”

“ Not Julien. Not Nick. No one , Natalie, you hear me?”

“What’s going on in this house, Rosalie? I need to know. It’s Rosenberg, isn’t it?”

At the mention of him, Rosalie’s face acquires an almost sinister expression, and she hisses with a hostile tone I haven’t heard from her yet, “Don’t be stupid, Natalie.”

She closes her eyes, almost as if in pain. When she opens them, they are misted with tears, and her lips stretch in a smile that’s far from genuine and therefore feels out of place. The change is so abrupt that it catches me by surprise. She holds her palm in front of her, as if stopping me, and I notice that she’s trembling.

“Please, Natalie,” she pleads. “Either leave or be very quiet about anything you see here.” Her eyes search mine for confirmation, then she turns away. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t,” she murmurs.

I don’t understand what that means, but I realize one thing—Rosalie is not irritated with me. She’s really afraid of something.