Page 9 of Stalker's Toy

"Mr. Lindberg." The dusting wand trembles in my grip. "I was just?—"

"Finish the Botticelli corridor." He looks at me, maintaining eye contact.

I swear, I could get lost in those icy depths of his.

He shrugs out of his coat. "There's soot residue from the fireplace restoration. Can we do something about that?"

Francisco takes the damp garment. "I’m certain we can. Shall I bring you some tea to the studio?"

"Whisky. The Yamazaki eighteen." Henrik's cufflinks click against the doorframe—onyx set in palladium. "And Miss Cohen?"

I freeze with my cleaning caddy halfway to the trolley.

"Your charcoal work." He taps his temple. "The phoenix. More teeth next time. Mythical creatures shouldn't look docile."

The door closes and I’m stuck trying to figure out how he saw the phoenix.

Did he open my portfolio and steal a look?

I wouldn’t put it past him.

Francisco exhales through his nose. "You heard him.After you finish up with this, I need you to get on the soot issue."

I swallow hard, “Yeah, I’ll hop right on it after I’m done here.”

Franscisco walks off. “Perfect. I appreciate it, Miss Cohen.”

I count twelve heartbeats staring at the empty doorway.

Rain streaks the arched windows.

Somewhere in the mansion, a piano plays a dissonant chord.

This place is so damn luxurious, and I wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth from the get go.

The feather duster leaves a trail of down filaments in my wake as I retreat down to the main living area, where the renovations are taking place.

The walk down the grand staircase feels like a descent into another world, each step taking me further away from the quiet solitude of the upper floors and closer to the heart of the mansion's hidden life.

The scent of sawdust and plaster tickles my nostrils, a sharp contrast to the lemon oil and lingering woodsmoke upstairs.

I catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the landing—my dark red hair stark against thedarkness of my outfit, the silvery scars on my cheek a reminder of a past I'd rather forget.

But how can I forget it when it’s embedded within me?

Once I reach the ground floor, it doesn't take long for me to get to the living area.

The room is vast, stretching into shadowy corners filled with dust sheets and scaffolding.

A grand fireplace dominates one wall, its stone mantel chipped and stained with decades of use.

Underneath it lies a blackened circle of soot and ash, ground into the once-pristine carpet.

I survey the damage critically, noting the dust particles that hang in the air and smear across every surface within a ten-foot radius.

The workers indeed did an atrocious job clearing up after themselves.

Unsupervised renovations tend to result in such messes.

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