Page 57 of Man of the Year

I pop the lid off Cara’s coffee, letting the smell spread around, overriding the hospital room stuffiness. Then I take a seat in the chair next to her bed and slowly drink mine with a banana muffin.

“Trixy escaped,” I tell her as I eat. “For a short while, at least. She managed to overturn a box of cereal. It was probably the most glorious five minutes of her life.”

I don’t like the taste of the muffin, but I eat it, somehow hoping that this routine will force the universe to set things straight—to what they used to be, with Cara safe and sound. Now that I think about it, I don’t even like muffins. It was always Cara and Lindsey’s thing.

“Someone broke into our place,” I say, updating Cara. “I’m pretty sure any expert search party would fail to find an elephant in our place, among all your mess.”

I chuckle through my nose, feeling sad rather than cheerful. I don’t know what I did to anger God or whoever runs this universe, but it’s unfair that I lose my two best friends in a span of four years.

Hold up, I haven’t lost Cara yet!

The muffin piece gets stuck in my throat, and I swallow hard, realizing I’m about to cry.

“You have to come back, Cara,” I whisper. “I’m not cleaning your mess or your room. Just saying. So hurry up.”

It must be exhaustion or general unease since I took the job because my mood falls abruptly. A lump forms in my throat, and in seconds I start bawling, sitting in the chair with my head low as my tears fall onto the stupid muffin.

It passes. Everything always does. That’s what they say after you lose a loved one. They are wrong. Grief doesn’t go away, but it becomes manageable. Many things pass, but not death. That’s a pretty permanent state, if you ask my opinion.

Five minutes later, I sniffle and wipe away the tears. My coffee is cold, my cheeks are hot, my head burns, and the self-pity is finally going away.

“Gotta go, babe,” I tell Cara. “I’ll be back tonight or tomorrow morning.”

I walk out, leaving the muffins and coffee on Cara’s side table, and the farther I get from her eerily quiet, disinfected room, the more determined I am to get dirt on Rosenberg.

I have to figure him out. He has to pay for what he’s done. I might be reckless, but if I quit now and Cara doesn’t make it, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

One more day, I tell myself.

FORTY-FOUR

NATALIE

“Boss is hungover,” says Rosalie as soon as I get to work. “He’ll be home all day, sleeping it off. That means anything he wants, every whim, every request should be executed at the speed of light.”

She’s in her usual humble mood, as if nothing happened.

Julien appears in the kitchen for a brief second, giving Rosalie quick orders. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t greet me, like I’m a traitor, though I definitely did the right thing yesterday.

There’s a lot of cleaning to do on the back terrace as well as in the mansion’s main area after last night’s party. Surprisingly, none of the guests stayed overnight. I get it now. Rosenberg is private, though his “private life” has taken a sinister meaning after what happened yesterday.

“Where’s Nick?” I ask.

Rosalie shrugs. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

A smirk appears on her lips. “I thought you two werefriends.”

That definitely sounds like an innuendo.

“It’s his day off,” she says.

The fact that he’s not around might allow me to approach the boss. I just need to figure out how.

Rosenberg has locked himself in his bedroom, and apparently, he’s still feeling feisty, because two hours later, as I clean the main staircase, I hear a muffled angry voice coming from his bedroom upstairs. A moment later, Julien walks out, no emotion on his face when he sees me.

“Mr. Rosenberg wants chicken soup,” he says to me while passing by. Like I care what’s on Rosenberg’s menu. Also, I highly doubt that Rosenberg got all worked up in his bedroom over chicken soup. “Rosalie will prepare it,” Julien says without stopping, already at the bottom of the stairs and not bothering to turn. “But he wants you to bring it up.”

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