Page 54 of Man of the Year

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.

FORTY-TWO

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