Page 1 of The Wages of Sin

Chapter One

KIERA

“Jane said you’ve done this before, so I assume you know the rules.”

The woman at my side waited until the elevator doors in front of us had completely shut before she spoke. We’d met in the lobby of this gorgeous Art Deco residential building on the west side of New York’s Central Park only minutes ago, and I could already tell from her crossed arms and deep frown that she didn’t like me.

That was fine.

I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to do a job, get paid, and go home.

Nothing else.

“No talking,” she continued as the elevator car rose. “No eye contact. No opening drawers or cabinets. You keep your head down and your hands to yourself. Clean only what’s in front of you. And if you happen to come across anything you shouldn’t—no, you didn’t.”

I nodded without looking up.

Like she said, I’d done this before.

That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the rest of the ride up to the eighteenth floor was silent. The no-talking rule didn’t just apply to interactions with the client. In general, the less contact cleaners like us had with anyone during work hours, the better.

And the safer.

When the elevator doors opened, my partner for the day stepped out into a pristine cream-colored hallway with dark wood fixtures. I followed her past half a dozen doors before we reached the one at the end of the hall—Apartment 18J.

Knowing the drill, I kept my face up as the woman pressed the bell beneath the security camera at the door, but as soon as I heard the locks turning on the other side, I dipped it down again.

“Rose,” a deep voice greeted my partner from the other side of the door. A voice so rich and low that, for a second, I was tempted to glance up and take in the face of the man it belonged to. Fortunately, I caught myself before I could make that mistake.

No eye contact.

There was a damn good reason for that rule, after all.

“Sir,” Rose greeted him, her tone far more cheerful than when she’d greeted me.

“Where’s Helen?”

“She’s sick, sir,” Rose said. “So the service sent a replacement today.”

“I see.”

After a full year of working for the service, I’d grown used to these long moments of silent scrutiny, but for some reason, this one felt different.

Even though I was careful to keep my gaze fixed on the ground and couldn’t see anything above the client’s dark trousers and expensive-looking black loafers, I swear I could feel the weight of his stare bearing down on me.

The sensation was unsettling but not entirely unpleasant.

After far too long, the man finally broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

“Mary,” I answered.

“Mary,” he echoed, that rumbly voice washing over me. Again, I found myself fighting the urge to look up and satisfy my curiosity.

I wasn’t sure why I was reacting this way.

Mary wasn’t even my real name. Just like I was sure Rose wasn’t the other woman’s.

After all, women like us only took this job because we had no other choice...because we’d been forced to leave our old names and lives behind.

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