Page 28 of Man of the Year

There’s nothing funny about a person’s addiction, but we are talking about a potential predator. I just found something I can use against him. I make a mental note to buy a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and keep it hidden in my car, in case it comes in handy.

I keep dusting. I’ve never been a fanatic about cleaning, but in the last two days, I’ve realized that dusting is the worst, second only to scrubbing toilets. I have bristle dusters, cloths, a feather duster, an air bulb, cotton swabs, and that doesn’t begin to name the multiple cleaning solutions. This place doesn’t have any dust, I swear, yet I’m pretty sure Rosalie goes around with a white glove and drags her forefinger along every surface for traces of dirt.

So I keep diligently dusting.

Art is the worst. I don’t know which pieces are extremely expensive, so I treat them all like they are priceless. Including the stupid spider-looking flower with big gaudy rubies on its branches that stick out of the wall in different directions. Annoyed, I swipe my feather duster a little harder.

That’s when one of the red stones pops off and falls to the floor.

My breath hitches in my throat. I stare in panic as it rolls off, and then something else happens—it snaps into two pieces.

No! No-no-no-no!

I get on my knees, reaching for it with my fingers, and freeze.

I’m not an expert, but I have a pretty good idea of what I’m staring at. I’m not paranoid, and I’m not making this up, because the tiny object that has separated from the art piece is definitely a camera.

“Oh, crap.”

Instantly, fear steals the air out of my lungs. I pull my hand away and stare at the object, then get on all fours and bring my face closer, my nose almost touching the floor.

My first thought is that this room is supposed to be camera-free, so clearly, this is a hidden camera.

My next thought is that this might be one of many.

The next thought makes my stomach drop—whoever is watching this camera will see that I was the one who knocked it off and discovered what it was.

The thought that follows is—who can I tell? Does anyone know? What if they do, and I blabber about it, only to get myself in trouble? What if they don’t, and I will end up gettingeveryonein trouble? What if I’m already in trouble, and I end up like Cara? Or Darla?

My thoughts race a mile a minute, my heart beating so hard in my chest that I think I’m having a panic attack.

“Think,” I tell myself, still on all fours like a dog sniffing the ground.

I lean just a little bit closer and study the camera piece. It’s a small black square, about an inch across, with a round lens and some sort of goo behind it—probably the adhesive that held it in place. The camera sits on its side, the lens pointing away from me.

Okay, good.That means that I haven’t stared directly at the camera yet, which means I still have a chance of acting oblivious to it. That is, if there aren’t other cameras watching me right now.

Maybe not everything is lost yet.

Holding my breath as if it will blow the camera away, I retreat on all fours away from it, then slowly rise to my feet.

Okay. Okay. I got this.

I take a deep breath, put the duster away, pick up the vacuum cleaner, and plug it in. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I turn it on and start vacuuming the carpet. I purposefully vacuum a distance away from the little eye on the floor but in its direct view. I force the vacuum in front of the camera, knowing exactly where it is but never looking in its direction. After thoroughly vacuuming in front of it, I swallow hard, take in a deep breath, and run the vacuum over the red stone, then over the camera piece on the floor.

As soon as they are sucked in with a horrible crackling sound, I close my eyes and exhale, taking my time to catch my breath as the vacuum keeps going. I’m playing dumb and hoping that it works.

I did it. It’s all good. It will work out.

At this point, I wonder if I should walk out of this mansion and never come back. If anything else suspicious comes along, I will ask for my pay and do just that.

But there’s a party tomorrow. I need money. And I need to get any damning information possible on Rosenberg.

One more day, I tell myself. Those who fall victim rarely know the predators they are dealing with. I do. What’s the worst that can happen?

NINETEEN

ANONYMOUS

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