“If someone’s been missing for years like the person you’re looking for, they’re either very powerful or being held by someone powerful. Can’t help you, babe.”
Fucking hell.
I spend another hour driving around Sunnyside looking for Vince, only to find him drunk and incoherent. His slurred responses make it obvious he won’t be any help, and I don’t trust a drunk to find Kayla anyway.
My patience is stretched to breaking point, my eyes stinging with frustrated tears. I’ve spent all night running in circles, each name just a dead end leading to another dead end.
Finding someone competent who can help in Queens is clearly a bust.
With sinking dread, I realize I’ll probably have to risk venturing into Manhattan or Brooklyn if I want to make any progress. But not tonight.
I glance up with a heavy sigh, frowning at the slowly brightening sky.
What time is it?
My heart plummets when I check my phone—it’s past five.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I abandon the useless drunk Vince without another word and drive back to the East River, my head splitting with a terrible migraine, exhaustion pressing down on me so hard it feels like it could crush me.
The manhole is cold against my palm as I drag it over the opening once I’ve gotten a secure grip on one of the ladder rungs. Then I descend back into the sewer tunnel, the stench of wet moss and old filth making me gag after the night’s disappointment.
I move quickly through the tunnel, hyperaware of time slipping away. I need to make it back to my room before anyone notices I didn’t spend the night in the estate.
Sliding out of the exit in record time, I lock the entrance with my padlock again, then suck in the cool, balmy forest air and exhale, letting my frustration and disappointment out in one long breath. Why is this so impossibly hard? Soon, I’ll get a call from the man who brought me here to ask what I've found—which is nothing. I’ve found nothing.
I need to have something to give him by then. Or at least have a promising lead on my sister. A trace, a hint,anything.
The pressure makes the ache in my head intensify, and I rub my temples hard as I emerge from the woods and hurry back to the maids’ quarters.
By the time I reach my narrow bedroom and ease the door closed behind me, it’s almost six, and a few of the other maids are already stirring, opening doors and getting ready for the day’s work.
I have the morning shift again, so I also need to get ready.
But the thought of showering and getting dressed feels insurmountable right now. I’d much rather use my precious remaining hour to grab a quick nap than to go through the motions of pretending I’m a normal person with a normal life.
I set a timer on my phone and collapse onto my bed, not even bothering to remove my shoes. Almost as soon as my eyesclose, I’m falling into unconsciousness—not sleep, really, just the absolute exhaustion of a body and mind pushed past their limits.
Just one hour. That’s all I need.
It feels like barely seconds pass before the timer blares, jolting me awake. I curse as I check the time, confirming that indeed an entire hour has somehow already vanished.
Getting out of bed takes herculean effort. I drag myself to one of the shared bathrooms to brush my teeth, then back to my room to wipe the dried mud and tunnel grime off my arms and change into clean clothes and shoes.
One benefit of cutting my hair is that it’s easy to manage. A quick brush through and I'm good to go.
Or as good as I’m going to get on an hour of sleep…
The morning moves painfully slow, the time seeming to lag.
I mop, dust, scrub. Over and over. The endless ritual of cleaning this massive mansion stretches on, the sharp scent of lemon cleaner biting at my nose, the sting mixing with the dull ache in my arms and the steady throb behind my eyes. Somewhere below, muted voices drift up from the ground floor, but they barely register through the mind-numbing rhythm of repetition.
By eleven, my body feels heavier than the mop in my hand. Every muscle protests, begging me to stop until it seems to take elephant-level willpower just to stay upright. So when I finish cleaning the great hall, I give in and decide to take a break.
The migraine from earlier is now a full-blown headache pounding across my skull. It’s a miracle I've managed to keep going this long. Ineedthe break.
Just a minute, I tell myself, sinking onto one of the plushlounge chaises. Just one minute to rest my feet and arms. That’s all.
