“Don’t suppose you’d change your mind if I made it worth your while.”
What a filthy thing to say. Was he offering me money? Power? All the baubles he held in his hands? That was all dust to me. All I wanted was Damien.
“No, sir. Thank you for the offer, though,” I said, since it seemed polite to do so. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll clean the washroom, then leave you in peace.”
I turned my back to him and carried what I needed into the washroom, my heart beating like mad. Sweat ran down my chest in a river. I knelt next to the bathtub and made it shine, my mind always on the book thumping lightly against the tub’s wall. God help me, what had I done?
“I have another question for you,” he called from the other room. “You seen my gun? The one that was in my nightstand? It’s disappeared.”
I lie without hesitation. A wise head makes a closed mouth, after all. “G-gun, sir? I’m sorry,” I stammered into the bathtub, hopefully making it hard for him to hear my nerves. “I never saw no gun.”
“No? You’re the only one who’s ever in here besides me and some of my guys. I was sure you’d have seen it, you know, when you were cleaning the room.”
“I don’t clean inside drawers, sir,” I replied, running the water in the sink. Saints preserve us. I had to get out of there before I started crying. “I’m sorry I can’t be of any help.”
I was back on my knees again, cleaning the toilet in no time flat. When I was done, he was leaning against the doorframe behind me, watching me like a hawk.
“You look real good down there, Rosie.” The tip of his tongue peeked out. “Real good.”
Well. He looked like a tiger. I was too afraid to move.
Mrs. Evans was dead. Damien was somewhere else, working. The rest of the world was in chaos over the Crash. Nobody was coming to save me. I clutched all the cleaning cloths against my body, holding the book in place at the same time, then quick as a wink, I dashed past him, terrified to my bones. I threw open the door, pushed the trolley out, and I broke a speed record getting to the elevator.
Damien wasn’t waiting for me when my shift was over. I didn’t know where he was, and I couldn’t wait.
Now I am sitting alone in bed. Even in the dark I can see the black leather book in front of me.
By now, Mr. Carboni has noticed the gun isn’t the only thing missing.
BRIDGET KELLY2024
chapterTHIRTY-ONE
Matthew does, indeed, sleep on the couch. I did what I could, but he is the perfect old-fashioned gentleman. For now, anyway. I’m not giving up that fast. When I wake up the next morning, I do what I can to fix myself up before heading to the living room, but he’s not there.
“Matthew?”
I spot a Keurig in the kitchen, and I am instinctively drawn to it. Beside it, I find a note, written in the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen.
Quick trip to the office. Back before eleven. I will bring food and more coffee.
I feel a mix of disappointment at his absence and pleasure at the unexpected opportunity to explore the apartment on my own, which will give me a better understanding of this man. Sure, it’s snooping, but he would expect as much from me, I imagine. He likes to research, and he knows I do, too. I did what I could of that last night in his bedroom, looking at old photographs of grandparents and parents mixed in with grandchildren, maybe? There’s not one of him with a woman, though, which makes meunreasonably happy. I browsed gently through his closet and noted that he didn’t have a lot of variety, but what was in there was very nice. Not expensive, but good quality. I’ve already seen him in a few shirts and sweaters, and he’s looked great in everything.
It’s what’s covered up by his taste in fashion that interests me now.
I take a quick shower, since I’m not sure about the hot water tanks in this old building, then I dress in a T-shirt and sweats. Nice and comfortable. I want him to feel comfortable, too. No more worrying about being “too forward,” please.
As a last touch, I turn on the radio to something new but not too intrusive. I have no idea what kind of music he likes. As I’m doing that, a nervous thought occurs, and I walk to his window and pull back the shades. I search the street for any sign of that man from before. I’ve almost convinced myself that he was a bad man, and though there’s still a great possibility that he was nothing at all, I’m concerned that he might have followed me here. As I’m scanning the street, I hear a noise behind me.
“Hello!”
Matthew’s home. I grin stupidly and meet him by the kitchen, letting my fears go.
He’s unloading coffee, and I see him lift a few bread varieties from the bag: croissants, turnovers, muffins. I’m not surprised. This man does love bread. I hope his cholesterol is all right.
“That smells delicious,” I say, holding out my hands to help.
He shrugs out of a leather jacket and hangs it on a hook on the back of the door, then he gives me a coffee. Under the jacket is a white shirt. Not quite flannel, but soft and cozy, and he’s rolled the sleeves up. The blond hairs on his forearms catch my eye.
