Page 20 of Man of the Year

Before leaving, I clean out my purse, and a card falls out:

Detective Lesley Dupin,

Jersey City Police Department.

I wonder if I should give her a call, tell her what I’m up to. But she might want to start investigating, show up at The Splendors, mention me or Cara. That would be a disaster.

I decide against it. Also, I probably shouldn’t be carrying a detective’s card in my purse while I’m at The Splendors. I drop it on the table, but just in case, I punch the detective’s number into my phone and save it under “Dupin.”

“Keep an eye on things,” I tell Trixy the Rat and leave my apartment.

I stop by the local bakery around the corner and get blueberry muffins, Cara’s favorite. It’s a silly thing to do, considering Cara is in a coma. As I drive to the hospital, the delicious smell spreads through the car, jolting back memories of our routine mornings. It makes the lump in my throat grow bigger, my eyes burning with tears.

She’ll make it. She’ll make it. She’ll make it.

“No progress,” the nurse says when I walk into Cara’s hospital room. “Oh, and those…” Her brows knit together in pity as she looks at the box of muffins in my hand. “They are not?—”

“I know,” I cut her off softly. “I’ll just leave them by her bed for a bit. Please don’t get rid of them right away. It’s breakfast time. These are her favorite.” I smile apologetically. “I know, it’s silly. It’s just…” I’m ready to burst into tears as I look at the motionless Cara, surrounded by tubes and monitors, while I’m talking about stupid muffins.

The nurse nods in understanding, and as soon as she leaves the room, I set the box of muffins on the small table by Cara’s bed and force a smile onto my face.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you, babe?”

It’s so heart-wrenching—talking to her in a coma, pointlessly smiling. After what happened to Lindsey, I prayed I’d never hear those awful sounds again—the beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the ventilator.

My chest tightens. A sob breaks free.

Oh, god, I’m going to cry. No, I’m not. I’m not going to cry. I won’t.

I take a deep breath and hold it to stop the tears, but they are already spilling down my cheeks.

“It’ll be fine,” I murmur between sobs and rush out of the room, unable to be there any longer, feeling angry that I can’t handle this well, and helpless, so utterly helpless.

I’m sorry, I repeat in my mind. For being so weak. For being alive while one of my friends is dead, and the other one is close to it.

It’s all because ofhim. I need to meet Geoffrey Rosenberg. I should use my looks to get his attention. There’s a downside to being attractive—yes, there is such a thing. I found that out by bartending in fancy places and having to say no to the drunk advances of men who think that their wealth gives them unlimited power. Occasionally, it backfired. At one of my jobs, an arrogant drunk accused me of serving him cheap booze and siphoning the expensive one just to get back at me for rejecting his advances.

What I heard at the mansion yesterday is a much darker story. Apparently, Darla, the previous housekeeper, got too close to Rosenberg and got hurt. She might not make it. That’s worse than getting fired. That sounds like… a murder attempt.

Maybe that’s what that shady guy who got into a fight with security last night was alluding to. Maybe he’s Darla’s relative? I doubt anyone will tell me his name.

I did sit down last night and draw a simple plan of the mansion as I remembered it. I marked the cameras that I noticed—six in total. That gave me several ways to move around the mansion through the staff quarters with minimal notice. We’ll see how that works out.

The sky is gray. It rained all night, and it’s still drizzling, but it’s supposed to be sunny later on. The radio is blaring in my car as I’m driving to work. The talk-show host goes on and on about crypto stocks spiking in the last two days.

“Money, money, money, money,” he rants. “We love to hate it, but we can’t live without it.”

“Money doesn’t make one happy,” a caller says, an older woman who begins spewing seasoned wisdom about life.

The host interrupts her. “Clearly, you never had any. It’s not the money that matters but itsquantity.” He laughs triumphantly.

The caller starts arguing, and I kill the radio. They are both right and wrong.

As I pull up to the gate of The Splendors Mansion, Dave opens it and gives me an unwelcome stare through the booth window.

Dude, get over it.

During the half-hour ride from the hospital, my mood has done a full 180. I’m determined to find out what my rich boss is up to.

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