Page 47 of Man of the Year

I tilt my head toward the motionless girl. “She isn’t drunk, just so you know. She was poisoned, sedated, spiked—I don’t know what it is, but it’s not booze.”

Julien’s expression doesn’t change, but his nostrils flare just a little bit. He might be good at self-control, but he’s not calm.

“What makes you think that?” he asks.

I take a tiny step toward him, the poky end of my neckerchief almost touching his suit. Rising on my toes, I bring my face closer to his.

“Because I watched her walk in here an hour ago,” I hiss. “She wasfine. She wasn’t even tipsy. That”—I nod toward the motionless body—“is not from booze. She needs help, Julien. She needs to be taken to the hospital. And if you don’t let me take her, the detective I just talked to will know what happened. In fact, she will learn about the previous housekeeper and much more.”

Julien’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m making this up. He can probably tell that I’m trembling, nervous, despite my angry voice. I don’t care.

He presses the mic button on his lapel. “Dave, I need you here.”

He steps to the library door to unlock it and lets the security guy in.

Of course, Dave glares at me. He should get a prize for the angriest eyes, though I’m pretty sure I’m the only person he directs his glares at.

Julien motions for him with two fingers to follow and walks up to the blondie. “This young lady needs to get to the hospital ASAP.” He picks up her purse, weeds out the driver’s license, and snaps a picture of it.

Meanwhile, Dave picks up the girl in his arms like she weighs nothing and, giving me a side-eye, walks out.

Julien follows. “Clean this up,” he tells me with a nod to the shattered glass on the floor.

I dart after him into the dark hallway and call out, “Julien?”

He stops, turning to look at me.

“If she doesn’t get to the hospital,” I say, “she might not make it. And if she doesn’t, I’ll find out. And…” He knows whatandmeans. “Please, help her,” I say and walk back into the library.

I let out a shaky breath as I close the door behind me. The library suddenly seems too quiet and eerie, the glass shards on the floor glistening in the lamplight.

I should get my purse and run the hell away from here while there are witnesses and bodyguards all over the parking lot. Instead, something stops me.

I take deep breaths, calming myself, listening to the sounds in the house. The noise from the party on the terrace doesn’t reach here. Nor do any sounds from upstairs. It’s quiet up there, which makes me wonder what Nick and Rosenberg are up to.

The change in Rosenberg was drastic, violent even. It’s not common, but I’ve seen it plenty of times before. Once, a customer at my bar got so angry about being cut off that he took a glass and smashed it against the bar counter with his hand. Blood everywhere, glass shards stuck in his palm, he shoved it in my face, laughing like a lunatic.

That’s Rosenberg, though he was interrupted in time. Was he? What does he do to women after he drugs them?

My brain is reeling as I study the mess on the floor, about to bring a broom, when my eyes catch an unusual object under the armchair. It looks like a piece of candy. When I walk over and sit on my haunches to take a closer look, I realize that it’s not a candy but a flat, red, rectangular cartridge, about three inches long. I pick it up with my thumb and forefinger and bring it closer to my face, studying it.

One end has a knob, like a button. A small needle protrudes from the other end.

My blood goes cold—it’s a syringe.

THIRTY-SEVEN

NATALIE

It’s almost ten o’clock, an hour since the incident, and my hands are still shaking as I pick up the empty plates and glasses on the back terrace and bring them to the kitchen. Rosalie looks like Grumpy Cat, not a word about what happened in the library.

I feel nervous tremors all over my body. My stress level is higher than it was during my shift on New Year’s night at a Presidential Club’s bar two years ago. Am I being watched? I have no doubt anymore. Just in case, I keep my phone on me. If they want to fire me for it, I don’t care.

Most guests left. A few are still chatting, sipping their colorful fizzy drinks. Surprisingly, no one is drunk. A number of people are on their laptops, and someone is doing a full-on computer presentation in one corner of the terrace. While these people are partying, a person got assaulted, and they don’t have a clue.

Julien walks out onto the terrace and beckons me with two fingers.

“Where’s the girl?” I ask as I approach.

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