Page 49

FORTY-EIGHT

NATALIE

When I return to The Splendors, before I even get out of the car, I do several things.

First, I put the little chocolate wrapper with ground-up sleeping powder in my pants pocket.

Second, I put my phone on silent, then turn on the recorder app, and tuck the phone under my shirt and the hem of my pants. Screw the no-phone rule. When I’m upstairs with Rosenberg, I need proof of everything that’s being said and done. I wish my breasts were bigger so I could use my bra as a hiding place. Alas.

Next, I take the large cookie tin I got in the store, empty the cookies into a plastic bag, then stick a bottle of Jack Daniel’s into it. If I’m on hidden cameras, there’s no way to prove there’s anything in the tin but cookies.

Last, I need to take the envelope the stalker gave me and stick it in my pocket. I rummage through the stuff in my purse but can’t find it. Worried, I dump the contents of the purse onto the passenger seat, feverishly go through all of it, then turn the lining of my purse inside out, but the envelope is nowhere to be seen.

Crap. I definitely put it in my purse this morning before I left my apartment.

My head spins as I give up the useless purse search and lean back against my seat. Someone has gotten into my purse. Someone took the envelope. I don’t know what was in it, what type of info, but if it’s for Rosenberg’s eyes only, it must be sensitive, and whoever took it knows I had it.

Dammit!

Okay, maybe it’s in the locker. Maybe it fell out.

I take several deep breaths to calm my nerves, pick up the cookie tin and my purse, and step out of the car.

Just as I approach the staff entrance, the door opens and Walter, the gardener, walks out.

“Hey, Walter,” I say, walking past him, but he only stares me down, then loudly spits on the ground.

What’s his problem with me?

I cringe and turn around when I walk in—he’s still staring and hasn’t moved an inch.

The door closes behind me, but I wait for ten seconds, then slowly open it again and peek outside.

Yep, the weirdo is still standing there, staring in my direction.

“Can I help you?” I ask. “You feeling okay?” Seriously, dude.

With painful slowness, Walter squints at the sun, then fixes his baseball hat and, without a word, walks off toward the garden shed.

My friendliness falls off my face as soon as I close the door. I walk to the locker and, first things first, search it for any signs of the envelope.

Nothing.

Nerves bunch in my stomach. There’s a minuscule chance that the envelope fell out of my purse back home, in the hallway, but somehow, I don’t think that’s the case.

“Back so soon?” Rosalie’s loud voice behind me makes me jump. She’s gotten into the habit of creeping up on me.

“Yes.” I shove the purse in the locker and, holding the tin under my arm, walk past her.

“I need you in the kitchen!” Rosalie barks at my back.

“I need to deliver this to the boss,” I snap, without turning around.

“What are you delivering?” she insists, though I keep walking.

“It’s cookies-and-milk time!” I shout back and turn the corner toward the stairs. I’m done playing the good girl in this house.

Upstairs, I knock on the door.

“Come in!” Rosenberg calls out from inside.

When I walk in, his eyes right away dart to the tin.

“About time. What took you so long?” He walks up and snatches the tin out of my hands, pops the lid, and grunts in satisfaction as he pulls out the bottle. “Smart girl.”

Impatiently, he twists the lid off the bottle and takes a greedy gulp.

Yep, he has a problem. And he definitely doesn’t care about who I am and what I do as long as I bring him his fix. I have a feeling this bottle will be empty soon.

“Want some?” he offers.

“I don’t drink, sir. But I’d be happy to keep you company.”

I want to watch his transformation because, as per what I saw yesterday, it’s dramatic, to say the least.

His phone beeps with a message, and I take this moment to do what I planned.

“May I?” I reach for the bottle. I already noticed a mini fridge with soft drinks and a shelf with glasses in the opposite corner. “Take a seat and relax. I’ll make you a drink.”

As I walk to the mini fridge, I look over my shoulder and see Rosenberg arrange himself on the bed, in a half-lying position, his back against the headboard. That’s not what I meant by “relax,” and I tense at the sight, but right away Rosenberg gets preoccupied with his phone, which works great.

Discreetly, with my back to him, I pull the chocolate wrapper with the powdered drug out of my pocket, empty it into a glass from the shelf, then quickly top it with whiskey.

I turn around and smile, a glass in my hand.

Rosenberg is not paying attention to me. It’s all right. I just need him to drink. And if he drinks even half of this, he’ll be out in half an hour.

“Sir?” I pass him the drink as I approach.

He greedily snatches it out of my hand, his attention back on the phone, and takes a large gulp. A contented “ahh” escapes him. He smacks his lips. I’m about to ask him a question or two, see if I can get him to talk, when he orders, “Lock the door.”

My stomach sinks.

Oh, crap.