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FORTY-ONE

NATALIE

“Detective Dupin,” the low raspy voice says.

“Detective? Hi,” I say into the phone. “This is Natalie Olsen again.”

“Miss Olsen, how are you?”

I feel more confident being on the phone with a detective as I drive through The Splendors’ gate on my way out.

“I wanted to tell you that I know the man my friend went home with after the club.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Geoffrey Rosenberg. Does it ring a bell?”

“Should it?”

Just then, I pass a car parked on the side of the street. When I look in the rearview mirror, its headlights come on, and it pulls onto the road just a short distance behind me.

Crap. Is someone following me again?

“Miss Olsen?” the detective calls out to me.

“Yes, sorry.”

“You were saying?”

“Geoffrey Rosenberg is an entrepreneur, a very wealthy one. Google him. I recognized him when I ran into him by accident,” I lie. If I tell her I saw him on the cover, she might think I’m after his money. “And I got a job as a cleaning lady at his house.”

“You did what?”

Ugh. That sounded bad.

“I had to make sure,” I say, trying not to sound careless or worse—like a gold digger. “You said there was another person in the hospital who was brought in with the same condition as my friend. Is her name Darla?”

“Miss Olsen, sounds like you are doing some type of amateur investigation, and, to be honest, it’s slightly unsettling.”

“Detective, I’m sure the man my friend went home with is Geoffrey Rosenberg. A hundred percent. In fact, there’s a young woman who was at a party at his house tonight who ended up at a hospital. She is…” I realize I didn’t even ask Julien her name or what hospital she was taken to.

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh.”

I slam the steering wheel in frustration. The detective doesn’t sound like she believes me. I look in the rearview mirror—the car is still following me. When I take a ramp onto the highway, it does the same.

“And you went to that party, too?” the detective asks.

“No! Gah! I work at that house. I have, for three days now.”

“And how exactly did you get a job at that place?”

“By coincidence.” If I tell her that I coincidentally saved his driver’s life in Manhattan, she’ll definitely think I’m either lying or a loon.

“A coincidence,” the detective repeats.

“Yes. I know how it sounds?—”

“Is there something you are not telling me, Miss Olsen?”

Here it goes again. She talks to me like I’m trying to mislead her.

“Everything I’ve told you is true,” I say. “If you check the local hospitals, I’m sure you will find a young woman admitted several hours ago, spiked by a heavy drug.” If Julien lied, and she wasn’t taken to the hospital, I’m really screwed. The detective won’t ever trust me again.

“Anything else you want to tell me? Anything regarding your friend?” she asks.

“No. But something’s not right about the mansion I work at. Or Geoffrey Rosenberg. I think there are a lot more victims than just Cara and the girl tonight. It’s serious.”

“Miss Olsen, here’s what I suggest. You don’t go back to that house. You don’t do anything that might put you in danger. You don’t talk to anyone about it. You stay put. Right now, everything you say sounds like slander.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“Without any proof, what you are saying is a serious accusation. Considering you say the man is wealthy, this might turn against you very fast, in a way that could put you on the wrong side of the law.”

“What do you mean? My friend is a victim, and I’m trying to help!”

“Miss Olsen? There’s no need to yell at me. All I’m saying is that I want you to stay safe. Keep everything you told me to yourself. No discussing this with anyone, so you don’t tarnish a man’s reputation before we have any sort of evidence. You don’t want to be accused of stalking.”

“I’m a witness! What other evidence do you need?”

“Miss Olsen, you said he is a wealthy man. He probably has many important connections and a big business. Many people try to profit off others’ success, if you know what I mean.”

Suddenly, the detective’s words sink in. Oh, and they sink in like a thousand-pound barrel.

Rich man. Connections. Business. Poor woman’s accusations. No evidence. Slander.

The words spin in a circle in my head, and I see it clearly just as I saw it the day I found out who Rosenberg was—a poor person, and a woman at that, has no power to bring a wealthy man down.

I grit my teeth, waiting for Detective Dupin to talk.

“Let’s do one thing,” she says in a businesslike voice. “For now, stay away from that man. I will check the hospitals, get some info about this Rosenberg fella, and get in touch with you. Sound good?”

I nod, though she can’t see me.

“Miss Olsen. I need to hear it from you. I want you to promise me that you won’t play a detective and put yourself in danger.”

She doesn’t even know the man, but she’s warning me. Danger, danger, danger—that’s all I hear around Rosenberg, and it’s making me sick to my stomach.

“Understood,” I say disappointedly. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure.”

“If I don’t call you in several days, will you come looking for me? And if you can’t find me, will you take this investigation seriously?”

“Miss Olsen?—”

“Thank you,” I say before she answers and hang up.

I slap the steering wheel in irritation. Anger boils in my veins. No one is willing to investigate Rosenberg.

I look in the rearview mirror and see the headlights behind me. Except now, I’m off the highway and driving through downtown Jersey City, and I can’t quite tell if it’s the same car following me or not.

The traffic light ahead turns yellow. I speed up and run the red light. That’s definitely a ticket, dammit, but at least I think I lost the car behind me.

As I get to my neighborhood, I make an intricate pattern driving around several blocks, just in case I still have the tail, until I finally reach my apartment building and park. I scan the dark street and get out of the car.

I’ve worked at The Splendors Mansion for only three days, and already I feel unsafe. I feverishly punch in the entrance code to my building and burst inside the foyer just as a person rushes past me, shouldering me. The person is so quick that when I whip around, I only catch the hunching figure, hands in the pockets, hoodie up—no way to see the face or hair color. I stick my head outside, watching the figure hurry away with a slight limp, disappearing into the night.

Odd.

I walk to my apartment and jump, startled, when the fire exit door slams shut at the end of the hallway.

Christ! I’m going to become a nervous wreck if I keep this job.

Inside my apartment, I slump against the hallway wall, relieved, taking deep breaths. One more day down.

A large manila envelope on the floor catches my attention, instantly making my skin crawl—another message. Inside my place. Again!

A scratching noise distracts me.

Ugh, Trixy is probably starving. Except I stall, hearing a little rat-squeal—it’s coming from the kitchen.

Can’t be…

I step into the kitchen doorway and see Trixy next to an overturned box of Froot Loops cereal, the colorful rings sprinkled all over the counter, Trixy still like a possum.

“Seriously?”

Trixy doesn’t protest when I pick her up and carry her to the cage. The little pest might be in a glucose coma after the Froot Loops feast. Serves her right. How in the world did she get out?—

I stop short when I see the cage. It’s not the open door with the broken lock that startles me. It’s the treasure box that keeps it closed and never moves.

The sight makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. The treasure box is not near the cage—it’s on the bureau next to it. And I wish rats could talk so that Trixy could tell me who the hell has been inside my apartment, moving things around.