I return her smile, and after tapping my bra to make sure the camera is still there, I say, “I need to do something in the closet. Cover for me if someone comes in?”
“Yes. But be quick.”
“Of course.”
I put on a pair of rubber gloves and go to the closet. I remove the camera from my bra, take it out of the small zip bag, and find the pressing point that opens the panel. What takes me the longest is removing the film that protects the double-sided tape we prepared ahead, struggling because of the gloves. I’m soon done with it, though, and crouching down, I look up at the niche’s panel to figure out the best placement. The door of the safe won’t graze it when it opens, so that’s good news. After a couple of fake attempts to enter a code, I find the spot most likely to catch it all and stick the camera there. Then I tug at it just a little to test the tape’s resistance and move away, satisfied with my work. One long press later, the camera is on. After ten seconds of filming, it’ll then only activate when there’s motion detected. And the next time that happens will be when Becker accesses his safe.
Overall, it takes me barely more than a minute to get it done. Invigorated by my success, I close the panel and exit the closet, feeling victorious. One more step, a big one, and we’ll have whatever is on that laptop.
Right now, my next move is to be quietly let go. I’ve done everything I could do under cover like this, and I’m eager to leave this place and never come back. Or I guess I’ll come back—with Lex in a tux and looking nothing like this.
Because I don’t want to give Paola even more work than I already have, I help her finish up with this room. At least I try, my mind a little scattered, already thinking of what’s left to do to finish this. I’m distractedly polishing the chest of drawers at the wall of butterflies when the door opens. Thinking it’s Paola getting more things from the cart outside, I don’t turn around, keeping my eyes on one of the butterflies, absorbed by my thoughts.
I go along the row that is at my eye level, reading the names associated with each specimen, taking in their colors and sizes. It’s crazy just how different they can be.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a low and masculine voice asks behind me.
Oh, God …
My entire body tenses as the tendrils on the back of my neck rise vertically. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and my breathing increases as panic floods me.
Doing my best to hide how frenzied I’m feeling inside, I slowly turn around. “Lo siento, señor Becker,” I say, looking at the carpeted floor.
I’m about to make my way out, as we’ve been instructed, when he asks, “Do you have a favorite?” I act clueless, feigning incomprehension, so he waves at the frames with, “Favorito?”
Before my attitude can become suspicious, I turn to the wall and look for a butterfly that stands out from the others. I point to a blue one, so iridescent it almost looks like metal.
“Ah, theMorpho Didius. Excellent choice. This one comes from Brazil.” With his hands behind his back, he comes closer to the one I’ve pointed to and examines it up close. “My personal favorite is this one,” he continues, moving further from me to point at a butterfly from the bottom row. “Which one I favor usually changes with my mood, but this one has had that title for over a year now.”
Since he’s pointing at it and waiting for my reaction, I allow myself to go there and look at the specimen. Pointing is an international language, after all.
The one he’s showing isn’t much to look at. It’s small, barely one inch by two, with a yellow and brown pattern.Catasticta Lycurgusis written on the plate. Of all the beautiful insects hanging on the wall, I’d never expect this to be anyone’s favorite.
Since I’m not sure what to say, I nod with an awkward smile, eager to end this. When I make no effort to interact or keep the conversation going, he waves a dismissive hand and says, “I’ll leave you two to your work. I needed a binder.”
I stay in place as he walks to the closet and thank my lucky stars that he didn’t come five minutes earlier. Paola and I wait for him to leave and then exchange a look while both letting out a long sigh. I need to get out of this place before this whole thing catches up with me.
As I was instructed, I walk to the service quarters to meet with Mrs. Reed. On my way, I snag a small shiny trinket from a console table in a hallway. Time to get unequivocally fired. I knock on Mrs. Reed’s door and walk in when she invites me to.
“Perdita, come in,” she commands, and I obey.
Before she can say anything, I put on my best pleading expression and say in Spanish, “Señora Reed, I know why you wanted to talk to me, and I’m so sorry.” Understandably, she seems confused. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“What are you talking about?” she wonders, more and more confused.
I step up to the desk and pull out the random object I slipped into my apron moments ago. “I didn’t think anyone would notice,” I continue.
She looks at the object with a frown, then at me. “Did you steal this?”
“I don’t know what came over me. I swear I won’t do it again.”
She stands from her chair, threateningly leaning over her desk. “Perdita, this is unacceptable behavior.”
“I’m sorry. People didn’t really notice at The Plaza, and I—”
“You are fired,” she asserts, cutting me off. “Go change, get your things, and get out of this place immediately.”
“Señora Reed, please don’t fire me,” I beg, just for the form.
