Page 29 of Man of the Year

I stare at the dead feed from the library’s camera, then rewind the footage.

Of course, it’s you.

You are not a cleaning lady, but I already know that. You are a nuisance. You should be fired before you stick your nose any further in my business. But that might create a problem, too.

I zoom in to rewatch the footage at the exact moment the hidden camera from the art piece in the library hits the floor.

At first, all I see is the carpet. Then you step into view, vacuuming, not looking at the camera. Slowly, your feet on the carpet come close to the camera. The vacuum follows. Then—poof!—the feed goes dark.

I feel a prickle of irritation.

This better be a coincidence, Natalie. Or your sloppiness. Pray that you didn’t actually notice the hidden camera or tell anyone about it. If you did, then we have a big problem.

TWENTY

NATALIE

Here’s the breakdown.

Two days at The Splendors—it’s a weird place, to put it mildly.

Scrubbing floors, toilets, cleaning the staff area—not my thing, but I’ve done worse jobs in my life.

Cameras everywhere, plus the hidden ones no one told me about—god knows how many of those there are and for what reason. Don’t underestimate my paranoia when I use the bathroom.

A millionaire boss who likes “meeting pretty staff”—creepy.

Strict privacy rules, no cell phone—that I can deal with, but, again, creepy.

Gloves on almost all the time—my hands are starting to itch already.

A stalker and security personnel who, for some reason, avoid the police—a warning.

A half-dead former housekeeper, whose position I’m filling in—mega red flag.

What did I miss?

A smart person would’ve run from this place. I should. I could call up Rocco and pick up a shift or two on the slowest days at his Irish tavern to make some cash.

But this job is all about persistence.

Yeah, Mom used to call me strong-headed. My former boss called me the Iron Lady. Customers called me tough. Cara just says I’m stubborn. Personally, I think I have an issue with letting go of things. I don’t like leaving things unaccomplished. I don’t give in to other people’s crappy ideas and suggestions. Abrasive power only makes me rebel. The phrase “You can’t” only makes me try harder. I like rules and discipline and hate when people think of themselves above them. I’ve dealt with plenty of wealthy folks who think that rules are meant for those who can’t buy their way out of them.

They are not wrong, and I hate it.

That’s the thing with Rosenberg. He is a perfect example of living in a world where money can bypass laws, morals, and ethics. The police can’t do anything about it. The law is made for the masses, the ninety percent of us.

Me? I’m just a stubborn girl. But as one smart man said, “Do not underestimate the power of a mosquito.”

I’m sure unlawful things are going on in this house. I’m also pretty sure Rosenberg is responsible for the girls in the hospital. I will get enough dirt on him to cause a stir. I will take it to bloggers, journalists, or whoever is willing to listen. I want Rosenberg to catch on fire, and not in a good way.

I just need to find something incriminating first.

Hence, I still work at The Splendors, dealing with all the red flags. Including the current one—I think someone is following me.

It’s eleven at night, and I’m driving home, pulling off the highway at the exit to Jersey City, when I notice the headlights of an SUV behind me. That SUV has been following me pretty much since I left the mansion.

At this point, my paranoia is ramping up. I catch myself nervously tapping my finger on the steering wheel, my eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror.

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