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When I open the third drawer, though, I hit the jackpot. There’s a leather-bound planner, and when I flip it open, several folded papers fall out. Bills, by the look of them. I scan through them quickly: credit card statements with eye-watering balances, utility bills marked final notice, a letter from a debt collection agency.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, flipping through more pages. “David, I was actually right. She’s in serious financial trouble.”
Mixed in with the bills are receipts for luxury purchases: a nine-hundred-pound handbag, the latest phone, a weekend “wellness retreat” down south. There’s also a receipt for shoes that cost more than I spend on food in a month. Samantha’s living well beyond her means, trying to maintain a lifestyle she clearly can’t afford.
“This is it,” I say, excitement bubbling up. “This is the motive. She needed money, and this proves it.”
I pull out my phone and take photos of the evidence, flipping through pages as quickly as I can while still making sure the images are clear.
“Cat!” David hisses suddenly. “Footsteps. Someone’s coming. Hide, quick!”
I fumble with the planner, trying to shove it back into the drawer, but unhelpfully, my fingers have gone clumsy with panic. The footsteps are getting louder. Two sets of them, moving quickly.
David darts across the room and squeezes into the cupboard, pulling the door almost closed. I try to follow, but one glance tells me there’s no way we’ll both fit. It’s barely big enough for David alone.
The footsteps are right outside the door now. In a moment of desperation, I dive under the desk and tuck myself into the cramped gap where your legs are meant to go, yanking the chair in after me. I realise I’ve left the drawer slightly open, and the planner might not be exactly where I found it, but there’s no time to fix it.
The door opens with a soft creak, and I hold my breath, praying I won’t be seen. As long as no one walks around this side of the desk—or decides they fancy sitting down—I should be fine. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Both sets of footsteps enter the office, the sharp click-clack of high heels closely followed by a heavier, more deliberate tread.
“We have to be quick,” a woman says. Samantha, I assume. “I’ve got to inspect the bridal suite in fifteen minutes, and if it’s not perfect, today’s bridezilla will have my head.”
“Quick is my speciality,” a man jokes, and they both snigger like teenagers.
There’s a soft thump above my head, followed by a jangle of keys. A handbag dropped onto the desk, perhaps. Then, to my horror, I catch a flash of black tights and killer heels through the gap between chair and desk. Samantha moves to the window and fiddles with the blinds, then shadows swallow the room.
Now another set of legs appears, these ones masculine and in practical navy work trousers. The pair giggle again, then comes a soft thud—someone being lifted or pushed against the desktop.
“In your office again?” the man murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “You really do like living dangerously.”
Samantha lets out a breathy laugh. “Don’t pretend it wasn’t your idea in the first place. Besides, the risk of getting caught makes it all the more exciting.”
“True. Plus, there’s something about you in your natural habitat, where you’re always telling people what to do . . . it drives me mad, you know?”
Oh God. This is not happening. I’m not hiding under a desk while our prime suspect gets it on with some bloke right above me. Except . . . I am, and it absolutely is happening. So I can add voyeurism to today’s list of misdemeanours. Brilliant.
There’s a rustle of fabric—a skirt being hiked up?—then the sharp whisper of a zip being undone. Shoes scuff dangerously close to my hiding spot. The air fills with soft moans and stifled laughter, the sort that definitely wouldn’t pass muster at a staff meeting.
I squeeze my eyes shut, except that only seems to make my other senses sharper. The smell of lilies from Samantha’s perfume. Their voices getting breathier and less coherent.
Oh God. This has to be the most mortifying moment of my life, and that’s saying something, considering some of the situations I found myself in during my uni days.
The desk jolts suddenly, and I bite my lip to keep from yelping. Then an urgent rhythm builds: creaking wood, scraping shoes, Samantha’s increasingly theatrical sighs (“God yes!”, “More!”, “Harder!”). My only comfort is all this noise probably means they won’t hear me quietly dying under here.
Suddenly there’s a loud clatter. I crack open an eye to see a handbag has toppled off the desk, spilling its contents across the floor: lipsticks, receipts, coins, a compact mirror, among other things.
“Oops,” Samantha laughs breathlessly, but neither of them stops what they’re doing.
My gaze snags on a piece of paper that must have fallen out the handbag—not because I’m particularly interested in Samantha’s shopping lists, but because looking at it is infinitely preferable to looking up. But, even from my awkward angle, certain details leap out at me. There are initials scrawled across it. “RM” appears more than once.
RM . . . Robbie MacDonald?
My heart rate spikes. I squint harder, trying to make out more of the note without moving from my hiding spot. There seems to be some kind of timeline or schedule on it, and then—my breath catches—I spot the name “Ashford”. That’s the guest whose watch was the first item to go missing. This could be the evidence I’ve been looking for!
My fingers itch to reach out and grab the note. Too risky? But they’re distracted, right? Just as I’m considering making a desperate lunge for it, Samantha and her companion shift positions again, and I hurriedly withdraw my hand.
The desk shudders violently, as though they’re determined to win a prize for Most Inappropriate Use of Office Furniture. Samantha gasps loudly, followed by a responding grunt from her mystery man as he . . . well . . . finishes what he set out to do.
