We make our way into the lobby. It’s gaudy, with marble tiles and a trickling fountain of a spitting, naked cherub. Elodie confidently takes the lead, striding ahead of me on stilettos that echo in the cavernous space.
“We’re here for Mr. Casimir,” she tells the man at the front desk. He’s young, possibly a recent college grad. “We’re his nine o’clock.”
The man flips through a paper ledger, and after a beat he narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “I don’t see anything for today.”
“Really?” Elodie tries to peer over the desk, and the man is visibly uncomfortable as he tilts the ledger away from us. “Check tomorrow. Maybe something got messed up.” She turns to me. “You booked it, right?” she says, waggling her brows at me.
“Of course,” I say, and my nervous stammer isn’t entirely an act. Oh, she’s good.
“Um.” The man, who is in no way employed by Elodie, is as unnerved as if she held his job on the line. “I am terribly sorry, but there’s nothing here.”
Elodie turns to me and holds out her hand expectantly.“Show me the appointment confirmation email on your phone,” she says.
I make a show of scrolling through my phone, looking flustered.
“You didn’t get a confirmation,” Elodie says flatly. “What did I tell you?Alwaysget a written confirmation.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“That’s just great!” Elodie cries. “You know, I took a chance hiring you for my assistant, and in case you haven’t noticed, the economy is in the toilet. You’re damn lucky to get a salaried job with nothing but your useless business degree. And you can’t even get a simple confirmation?”
I lean against the counter like it’s the only raft in a choppy sea, and I give the man my biggest puppy-dog eyes. “Help,” I mouth to him, as Elodie stomps away on those heels to pace the lobby.
He takes pity and nods at me. “What were you here to see him about?”
“We’re press,” I say. “TheNew Haven Register.” I raise my shoulders sheepishly. “A small thing, you’ve probably never heard of. That’s why this interview was such a huge get for me.” I sniffle. “I, like, really need this job.”
He raises his voice loud enough for Elodie to hear. “Let me see if there’s something I can do.”
Elodie is burning with enraged Karen energy that manages to terrify even me. It’s no wonder the drop-off line at the school has gotten so much more efficient since she took over.
The man murmurs softly into the receiver, turning his back to us. Elodie winks at me, and I can’t hide my smile. This is more fun than I thought it would be.
I nudge her with my shoulder and nod to the security camera watching us from a far corner of the room. Mr. X has no doubt found a way to hack into it and watch us.
The man at the desk hangs up the phone, and I go back to looking like I’m on the verge of tears. Elodie has not dropped her act for even a second.
“Mr. Casimir says he’ll speak with you.”
I clasp my hands together gratefully. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Mr. X has been able to surveil the building. He tells me that Bertram doesn’t get any visitors besides grocery delivery, and he almost never leaves. Even if he’s a total recluse, it’s possible he’s just lonely enough to entertain the occasional stranger.
“You’re damn lucky, Margaux.” Elodie is enjoying her character a littletoomuch.
When the elevator doors open, the button for the penthouse is already lit up, preprogrammed by the man at the desk. Security at this place is tight. I’ve been in luxury buildings before, but nothing like this. I wonder what other sorts of millionaires live here, or if Bertram is the only billionaire. Likely so. It’s odd that he would end up in a place as remote as southern Connecticut just to watch the seasons change. He could have picked one of those dystopian marble-slab high-rises in NYC, just ninety minutes west of here.
The elevator slows to a stop, and just before the doors open, I tell her, “While you’re doing that, I’ll finesse him.”
“Good idea,” she agrees. “I would probably just scare him. Men always think I’m going to bite their heads off for some reason.”
“Some mysteries will never be solved.”
Elodie bursts into laughter but shuts her mouth abruptly when the doors slide open. She’s back in character.
We’re standing in a marble foyer now, with nothing but the door to Bertram’s penthouse. Another camera stares at us from the ceiling with its unblinking eye. There’s yet another camera beside the door—for Bertram’s own private viewing. I step forward and knock.
It takes a minute for him to come to the door. Although it’s late morning, billionaires don’t keep the same schedule as the rest of us. He could have been napping, or playing golf, or rolling around in a hot tub full of gold coins while models poured champagne directly into his mouth.
