Page 58 of Man of the Year

Oh?

Anxious, I finish steaming the stairs and the second floor and hurry downstairs.

Maybe the predator remembers me? This is an opportunity to slip the stalker’s envelope to him. I remind myself to keep a safe distance from him in case he tries something funny with a syringe or who knows what.

When I step into the kitchen, Julien stands with both his palms on the kitchen island, head hanging low.

I stall, startled by the sight. Something is going on. Not that I’d ever sympathize with this guy—screw him. Everyone here is covering up for Rosenberg. There’s no redeeming them. However, Julien did cover for me yesterday. Why?

Right now, he looks off. That’s not the usual composed Julien I know, and that’s another red flag.

Rosalie leans against that same island, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes are red and misted with tears.

“What’s happening?” I ask, taking slow steps toward them.

Julien pushes off the counter and walks out, the staff entrance door slamming behind him.

“Whoa. What’s going on?” I ask, turning to Rosalie, who wipes her eyes and turns away, making herself busy with the carry-out paper bag.

“Something happened?” I ask.

“Yes, bad news about Darla,” she says without meeting my eyes.

“How bad?”

“Well, it can’t get worse.”

The words stun me. Dead? Darla’s dead? This should be none of my business. I didn’t even know the girl. But I’m thinking about Cara, my brain making a calculation.

Cara was poisoned sometime after Darla. If Darla was in the same condition, the same coma, and now she has died, what does that mean for Cara? The nurse said Cara’s improving. Different people fight the same disease in different ways. Darla’s outcome is not a warning sign for Cara. And yet, when Rosalie prepares a lunch tray for Rosenberg, my anxiety kicks in like a brushfire. Especially when she instructs me, “Be quick. Don’t do anything stupid. If something feels off, if Mr. Rosenberg makes you feel uncomfortable, you tell me.”

Today, there’s no dancing around the subject—Rosalie’s words are a clear warning.

Holding the tray in front of me, my knees weak, I walk up the staff stairs to the second floor. I stop by Rosenberg’s room and press my ear to the door.

He’s talking, his voice low, almost in a hushed whisper.

“I’ll get you the information, I just need a day or two… Yeah, well, I’m tied up at the moment… Things are crazy. That’s an understatement. You just wait, baby. It’s going to be huge.”

Baby? Does he have a girlfriend? No one ever mentioned that.

“Just have some fucking patience, will you?” he says angrily. “Be a good girl. I have a lot on my plate right now.”

For a moment, the room sinks into silence, then he starts talking again, his voice acquiring a seductive growl. “Are you being kinky with me?” A low chuckle follows. “Sit tight, baby, okay?”

When the conversation stops, I swallow hard and finally muster all my courage.

“You’ve got it, girl,” I tell myself and knock on the door.

FORTY-FIVE

NATALIE

The door swings open abruptly, revealing Geoffrey Rosenberg in a state that would make his fans gasp.

His red hair is a mess. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s wearing a silk robe over his naked body clad only in boxers—thank god at least for those. The stale odor of booze coming from him is so strong that it makes me gag. I wonder if he keeps a secret stash of alcohol in his room.

His expression turns from irritation to approval. “Finally,” he blurts. “Come in.”

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