Page 17 of Man of the Year

Eight bathrooms, five guest rooms, and hours of steam-mopping later, I’m finally done with my first day of work.

I’ve learned from the experience that service people are grossly underestimated. Too bad. It’s your sober bartender who hears all your drunk conversations and accidentally spilled secrets. It’s your waiter, who’s used to reading faces and noticing body language, who knows exactly how your date feels about you. Your taxi driver hears every conversation you have. And your cleaning lady knows all your nasty habits. She also takes out your trash, but you have no idea that some of the secrets you throw out don’t necessarily disappear into a landfill.

I haven’t found anything incriminating in the house yet. Geoffrey Rosenberg and Nick have been gone all day, which is disappointing, but I have at least two more days to investigate.

It’s eight in the evening, and the mansion is quiet. I put the cleaning supplies into the utility closet and approach the staff kitchen.

The hushed voices there make me stop short just outside the kitchen entrance.

“She’s in a life-threatening condition,” the soft male voice says, Julien’s.

“How serious is it?” Rosalie asks.

“No brain activity. I don’t think she will survive.”

My heart thuds with panic. Cara? Are they talking about Cara?

Prolonged silence is followed by a sigh and more silence.

The detective’s words at the hospital come back to me.There’s another young woman in this very hospital in a similar condition…

Maybe they’re talking about Darla, the housekeeper.

“She can only blame herself,” Rosalie says. “She should’ve stayed away from him.”

“That’s not the point,” Julien argues. “The point is that someone got hurt, onmywatch, Rosalie. This job is supposed to be safe.”

“Not in this house.”

“Yes. Inthishouse. The rules are simple. As long as everyonefollowsthe rules.”

“She broke the rules, Julien!” Rosalie snaps in a strained whisper.

“I know! And now I feel responsible.”

I hear a thud, like someone hit a surface with a dull object or a fist.

“Listen, Julien, you can’t blame yourself for someone getting involved with a dangerous person. Darla broke the rules. She should’ve stayed away from Rosenberg.” So, theyaretalking about the housekeeper. “She knew about the consequences. It’s not your fault. Not mine either. Not anyone’s.”

“A person. Got. Hurt, Rosalie,” comes Julien’s angry whisper. “Again.”

Suddenly, everything goes quiet, so quiet that I know what that means—they heard me or sensed me.

Crap.

I can’t get caught, absolutely not, so I walk through the doorway and into the kitchen, pretending to pick at my nails, and run right into Julien’s hard chest.

“Excuse me,” I say, feigning surprise as I stare up into his intense hazel eyes. I shift my gaze to Rosalie. “Is everything okay?” I ask, acting innocent.

They don’t answer, so I throw a careless glance at my nails, making a point of bringing them closer for inspection, as if that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“I’m done,” I say casually and step around Julien toward Rosalie. “What’s up with you two? Something happened?”

Rosalie exchanges glances with Julien, who stands behind me.

“Nothing, sweetie,” she lies. “Just talking.”

I can feel Julien’s burning gaze. I don’t turn. If he could burn me with his stare, I’d be engulfed in flames.

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