Page 10 of Stalker's Toy

My annoyance prickles under my skin as I reach for my cleaning supplies.

For hours, I lose myself in methodical labor—vacuuming, scrubbing, wiping until my hands are raw and my muscles ache.

Each stroke of my cloth pulls away layers of grime until I'm sweating beneath my clothes.

But there is something satisfying about it too—acatharsis that pours calmness into my racing mind like cool water over hot coals.

Around me, echoes of unseen activity ebb and flow—voices carrying through open doors, footfalls on marble floors above.

But down here in this half-destroyed room, silence prevails except for the soft whispers of my cleaning tools.

Finally, as midnight approaches, the room begins to regain its former glory.

The carpet is a pristine landscape of lush fibers, the fireplace’s stone surface gleaming with renewed vigor.

I stand back and inspect my work, satisfaction bubbling up inside me.

It's not art, but there is something aesthetically pleasing about restoring order from chaos.

Francisco reappears just as I am packing my cleaning supplies back up, his footsteps echoing through the now clean room.

He surveys the area with a critical eye before nodding approvingly. "You've done exceptionally well," he says in his typically restrained manner.

I shrug off the compliment. "Just doing my job."

"No," he counters gently. "This is more than that. You have an eye for detail, Miss Cohen. A perfectionist streak that serves you well."

A ghost of a smile touches my lips as I hoist my bag over my shoulder.

Perhaps he's right.

But then again, if I didn't have my obsession with minutiae, I wouldn't be able to survive in this world—let alone thrive.

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He approaches and hands me a keycard. “Mr. Lindberg’s private collection requires your immediate attention.”

My thumbnail digs into a half-healed burn on my palm. “I thought that was off-limits.”

“Typically, it is. Alas, it requires your attention.”

Whatever.

“I’ve been here for over three hours at this point, Fransisco.”

A ghost of a smile spreads on his lips.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “I believe this will settle whatever overtime you have tonight.”

Once it’s in my hand I open it, seeing another four hundred pounds. “This is more than enough, thank you.”

CHAPTER TWO

Henrik

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

COHEN, Mia.

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