Page 7 of Man of the Year

I’m about to say something bitter to Nick, the hotshot driver. Sure, my simple white button-up, jeans, and my hair pulled back in a ponytail don’t give the impression of me interviewing for a CEO’s assistant. But a cleaning lady? Really?

I don’t say that. Nick’s gaze is not arrogant, not even a bit. It’s sweet and expectant, and I realize he’s actually trying to help.

“Are you asking me if I want to interview for a cleaning job at your boss’s office?” I probe, wondering if he is joking after all.

“Not his office—his residence. It’s in Jersey, twenty minutes or so outside the city.”

Nick scrunches up his nose again. I get it—that’s across the river in a different state. Coincidentally, I live in Jersey City, just across the river.

Nick shrugs. “It’s a staff of six people plus me. A temporary position anyway. Just trying to help if you are interested.”

I desperately need money. Like yesterday. “Won’t it take forever for a background check?” I ask carefully. “An interview? A résumé?”

I really don’t have time for that.

“Not if you know the right people,” he says with a wink. “The least I can do for someone who saved my life. Would be nice to have a pretty face around.”

I don’t know what to say. This morning, when I left my apartment to take the train to Manhattan for an interview, a cleaning lady position wasn’t even remotely an option. But this is not just any position. It might be fast money. And that’s not even the draw. It’s working for Geoffrey Rosenberg, the man who may or may not be involved in Cara’s poisoning. If there’s a chance to find out, it’s right now.

I chew on the inside of my cheek in contemplation. “You are saying I can get a job before the weekend and get paid right after?”

Nick checks his watch. At that very moment, his phone rings, and he switches the coffee into his other hand to pick it up.

“I’m here,” he answers, his face immediately acquiring a stern expression. “Yes, I’ll be there in five. Had a little delay… Yes. No problem, boss.”

His boss! He must be talking to the Man of the Year! It does something to my insides that twist in unease.

“What time is the conference call?” He motions with two fingers for my phone as he keeps talking to his boss on the other end. I pass him my phone, and he types in a phone number and sends a text,Natalie, to himself.

“Call me later today,” he mouths to me as he answers into the phone. “Understood… Yes… Yes. No problem.”

He winks at me and starts walking away, disappearing into the sea of people.

If this isn’t luck, I don’t know what is. I have a chance to meet the Man of the Year in person, maybe get to know him, maybe find out what happened the night Cara was drugged.

Cleaning trash will be temporary. And if Rosenberg turns out to be trash? I’ll figure out how to deal with him.

I just have to be very careful.

FOUR

NATALIE

Despite having to save every penny for rent, I do end up buying the magazine with the red-haired devil on its cover. I need the picture of the Man of the Year to remind me that I can, in fact, track that predator if he turns out to be one.

Jersey City Heights is across the river from Manhattan. That’s a fifteen-minute train ride. Cara and I have a car that we drove to the city from back home, but we only use it for out-of-town trips.

On the short train ride, I scan the article about Geoffrey Rosenberg. There’s nothing much about his past, except that he dabbled in crypto and digital ventures after he dropped out of college. He reemerged on the cryptocurrency scene about a year ago. Since then, his company, IxResearch, has become the most successful cryptocurrency exchange in the US.

I don’t know much about digital currency. And I definitely don’t know how one starts a company that a year later is backed by investors from around the globe and valued at ten figures. Apparently, at the age of thirty-four, Geoffrey Rosenberg is an entrepreneurial mastermind. He lives in Jersey. He rarely makes public appearances. He’s charming, private, extremely intelligent. And his company is soon to go public, which, analysts project, will multiply its value by ten. That’s billions of dollars.

Apparently, just like many young millionaires, Mr. Rosenberg doesn’t shy away from clubs or spiking young women.

Why?

The incident with Cara still doesn’t make sense, but I’m itching to find out more about the man I suspect is responsible.

As soon as I arrive to my apartment, I move the Styrofoam wig head on the coffee table to the side and open my laptop, then clear the clothes on the couch to make room for myself to sit.

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