Present Day
I’m up before the sun.
It took me forever to fall asleep last night, and when I finally did, I was restless. Ryan always sleeps hardest in that last hour before he wakes for the day, so this is the best opportunity to look for the papers he had when he came back from meeting George.
Ryan’s grip on me has lessened during the night so it’s easy to slip out of the bed without waking him. Crawling across the floor, I make my way to his bags. He’s got the duffel with all his clothes, shoes, and toiletries, and a laptop bag for his work stuff. I’ve been through this bag a number of times, dug through the files on his computer, and checked his internet history, but other than the things I’ve already found for Mr. Smith, he’s careful about what he leaves lying around.
Now I’m realizing it’s because he knew I’d be looking. I only found what he wanted me to. So stupid.
But those papers George gave him should be here somewhere unless he read them and then threw them out with the pizza boxes.
The air unit under the window kicks back on and drowns out the sounds of his bag being unzipped. The laptop comes out first since it takes up the most room. There’s a yellow legal pad he takes notes on while he talks to clients and a spiral-bound prospectus on some mutual fund I’ve heard him push on a few of the calls he’s taken since we hit the road.
A stack of papers are tucked away in the inside pocket. I go through them, sheet by sheet, most of them relating to the financial services business, and I’m preparing myself for the possibility that they aren’t here, until the edges curl up on the last few sheets in the pile as if its muscle memory has kicked in.
These were the ones that were rolled up.
Spreading them back open, it doesn’t take me long to recognize what this is. Alarm bells slam through my head.
This is the last batch of information I left for Mr. Smith. Devon had slipped it to me in that People magazine, and I had gone through it to decide what I wanted to turn over. The small handwritten note in blue ink in the bottom corner of the last page, where I tell him I will check the box again the next day, lets me know this is the original, not a copy, since all I had in my purse was a blue ink pen.
This shouldn’t be here.
I turn around and take in Ryan’s sleeping form and the puzzle in my head starts to rearrange. Even if I consider that Ryan is higher up the ladder than I am, he shouldn’t have this. Not the originals like this. Not delivered to him by George. Not when it sounds like George picked them up from the mailbox and brought them directly here, to him.
The idea that Mr. Smith wanted this business for himself seemed like the most likely scenario, but what if it’s more than that? There is no danger of me screwing up the hostile takeover of a business he already owns. No reason to keep me on a job that’s not a job at all.
My mind races, tripping over theories and speculations and suspicions, while the air conditioner purrs and Ryan sleeps.
The meeting between Ryan and George yesterday confirmed a couple of things. George knows where we are because Ryan told him. And the way they interacted with each other spoke to a closeness that only forms over time.
I have been trying to put a face to Mr. Smith for years. Turning to look at Ryan three feet away, it’s hard to believe he could be the boss I’ve grown to despise.
No. No, that’s not right. He’s too young. Timeline doesn’t match up.
As I shove everything back in the bag the exact way I found it, I mentally scroll through every conversation with Mr. Smith.
The first time I talked to him was eight years ago. Ryan was still at LSU and has no connection to North Carolina.
Mr. Smith handed me off to Matt, who I dealt with solely over the next two years. I didn’t speak to Mr. Smith again until after the Andrew Marshall job six years ago.
Six years ago.
Ryan’s grandmother fell ill with cancer six years ago. Ryan stepped in to handle the trucking business
—both the legal and illegal side—for his grandfather, so he could stay home to care for his wife, and eventually took over the business fully after he died not long after.
Was that all he took over?
No.
No.
Ryan is going to Atlanta with me where I’ll talk to a bunch of cops. Would he open himself up like that?
And then I’m back at the Bernards’ house in my mind. Seeing that small room where we answered every question asked of us. Where that detective learned Evie Porter was from Brookwood, Alabama. Because Ryan told them. “Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago. She didn’t know James.”
No, no, no.
And then Monday morning in the garage. Where Ryan lingered. And I ignored the 911 message from Devon. Because Ryan wasn’t ready to let me go. I remember thinking, Had I not lingered with Ryan in the garage, I would have seen Devon’s text as soon as I received it. Those few minutes may have cost me a clean getaway.
But wait. No. Mr. Smith responded to Mitch on that forum after we left Oxford. Ryan was driving. I think back on the moment I saw the message come across. I was in the passenger seat of my car. Ryan had just filled it up with gas and gone inside for more snacks. He was in the store while I was watching the conversation between Mr. Smith and Mitch.
The memory of the moment between Ryan and George boots up and I watch it again through a different lens. The familiarity is still there, same as I would have with George. But it’s Ryan making the decisions. George deferring to him. George delivering the papers to him.
This job was a test. Testing my loyalty.
And shit, Ryan would have known immediately that I’d altered the information on his business before I turned it over. He has direct proof I wasn’t doing the job I was sent to do. And I was worried about him losing his business to Mr. Smith.
I knew I would be watched closely.
What better way to watch me than when I’m sharing the same space? No.
Not going there. Not yet.
While it’s easy to jump to conclusions, it’s also very dangerous to make assumptions.
I crawl back to my side of the bed and snatch my phone off the nightstand and pull up Instagram.
Scrolling through my feed, I stop on the Skimm’s post recapping the five biggest news stories of the day and comment: That is breaking news! Too hot for me to handle! #OnTheRoadAgain #PartyOfOne
It’s a good chance Devon won’t see this for a couple of hours, but I need him to know I’m out of here and leaving Ryan behind.
Once my comment loads, I grab my purse and keys, abandoning everything else. I had already planned to stop at Goodwill on my way out of town to get what I need going forward, so I’ll just have to add a few more items to my shopping list.
The click of the motel door opening echoes through the room, but luckily Ryan doesn’t stir. I’m in my car and pulling out of the parking lot within minutes. As soon as I hit the interstate, I dump the phone I’ve been using as Evie Porter in Lake Forbing, and thanks to the little black box from Devon, if there is a tracer in my car, it’s not providing any information. Before, I wanted Mr. Smith to know where I was going, but not anymore.
Once I’ve been on the road about two hours, I stop to buy a prepaid phone and call Devon. “Hey,” I say, when it connects.
“What happened?” he asks.
I fill him in and we’re both silent a few minutes. “You know what I’m thinking,” I finally say, not wanting to voice out loud who I think Ryan really is.
“You know I’m thinking it too,” he replies. “But no assumptions . . .” “We only deal in facts,” I say before he can. This has been our mantra.
I’m still in the parking lot of the store where I bought this phone, pacing the length of my car again and again. I tell myself it’s because I’m stiff, but it’s fear that’s driving me.
“I’m back in Lake Forbing,” Devon says. “I’ll take care of my part, you take care of yours.” Before I can end the call, he says, “I’m close on the message board. Keep that phone so if I need you I can get you since I’m guessing you don’t have access to your Instagram account. The risk is low enough.”
I’m not sure what parameters Devon uses to gauge the risk versus reward in these situations, but I trust him enough that I don’t question his reasoning.
“Okay.” I pause a moment, then add, “If it looks like things are not going to end like we hope tomorrow morning, haul ass. Drop what you’re doing and disappear.”
“L, you know I’m not abandoning you.”
“Between Mr. Smith and the cops, we both know the chances of me walking away from this are slim.
And there are other people to consider. Heather, for one, will need you.”
“Same goes for you,” he says. “It’s never too late to bail. Just get up and start moving.”
“I’ll check in when I’m done today,” I say, then end the call. This entire conversation felt so much like a good-bye that I couldn’t bring myself to actually say it.
 |
It’s midafternoon when I pass the WELCOME TO EDEN sign. It was a long drive with only a stop to buy the burner phone to call Devon, and in Winston-Salem to buy some clothes at Goodwill.
My eyes drink in the town I once called home. Memories flood in so fast that I almost drown in them. The fast-food restaurant where I hung out with friends and the fabric store where Mama and I spent hours poring over new arrivals every week are still there, but those buildings have been ravaged by time and neglect. I turn on the road that runs in front of my high school, and it’s almost physically impossible to breathe when I see the worn path through the grass between the side door and the parking lot that I traveled a thousand times.
The last time I was here feels like a lifetime ago. It also feels like yesterday.
But as familiar as everything is, I am still a stranger here. There’s no one I would call up and visit.
One last turn and I’m on my old street. I pull into the trailer park and get out without cutting the engine. I study each one of the single-wide mobile homes crammed into this space, comparing what they used to look like to now and remembering who called each of them home. I save the middle one on the left side for last.
I cringe when I think about how embarrassed Mama would be for anyone to see it in this condition. Even though it wasn’t much to look at when it was ours, she always made sure it was neat and clean and the narrow beds near the steps had flowers planted in them. Now they’re full of weeds, and there’s a blue tarp covering some damage to the roof and a broken-down truck up on blocks next to the door.
It hurts to remember the girl I once was. The one who called this place home. That girl was happy here. Really happy. Even when Mama got sick, that young, naive girl thought she could take care of her. Thought she could save her from dying.
But that little girl learned a lot in that trailer. She learned that no matter how hard you try, sometimes it’s not enough. She learned the only person you could trust, the only person you could truly rely on, was yourself.
A woman peeking out from behind a curtain in the trailer closest to me reminds me I didn’t drive all this way for a walk down memory lane.
There is one reason I came back to Eden.
Once I’m in my car, I turn around and hit the main road again, stopping at Sheetz to refuel and do a quick wardrobe change in the bathroom. Then it takes only a few minutes to get to the newer area of
town, where the businesses sit in a long row behind plate-glass windows.
I park near Dr. Brown’s office at the far end of the strip and make my way to the door. “Can I help you?” the receptionist asks when I approach the counter.
“Yes, property management sent me over. We’re checking the breakers in all the units. There was an electrical problem in the pet store last night, but thankfully someone was there to get it under control before it started a fire. Shouldn’t take but a couple of minutes.” I was lucky enough to find a uniform shirt and a pair of khakis at Goodwill that I could make work so I look the part.
“Oh!” she says, motioning me to pass through. “Of course, let me know if you need anything.”
I give her a big smile then head toward the back of the office. Luckily, all the employees are with patients in the exam rooms so I go unnoticed as I slip inside the mechanical room. I bypass the electrical box, going straight for the main server and inserting the drive from my bag then running through the keystrokes Devon wrote down, guaranteeing the files are uploaded.
I’m out of the room in five minutes. Moving back to the reception area, I nod to the girl at the desk. “You’re all good, enjoy your day.”
I’m leaving Eden for the last time ten minutes later. Calling Devon, I say, “It’s done,” the moment he answers.
“Sending you a screenshot,” he says. “The Coach Mitch gamble paid off. We know who Smith is now.”
My heart rate skyrockets and I pull over on the side of the road as I wait for the image to load. And there he is. Even though the screen is tiny, his familiar face is all I can see. I stare at it longer than I should.
Finally, I put the phone back to my ear. “We deal in facts now,” I say.
“Yes, we do.” He pauses then says, “This doesn’t have to change anything, L.”
I swallow hard. “I know. Make the calls. I want to get through the cops first. Then I’ll worry about the bank. If I can’t shake the cops, the rest of it doesn’t matter, so they are the priority right now.”
“Okay. Remember what I said. It is never too late to bail. Just start walking.”
I’m nodding even though he can’t see me. “And you’re handling things in Lake Forbing?”
“Already done. Got in the house without a problem. I’ll tip the police off first thing in the morning,” he says. “And the next river you pass, toss that phone in. Don’t have it on you when you meet with the cops.”
“Will do. I’ll grab another one when I get to Atlanta so next time you hear from me should be after I’m done with those detectives. And if I can’t call, you’ll know . . .”
“Nope, no doomsday talk just yet. I’ll wait to hear from you.” And then Devon ends the call. I stare at his image a few more minutes before deleting it.
Alias: Regina Hale—Six Months Ago
It’s the first time I’ve been bored on a job. I’m in Decatur, Georgia, and the only thing I’ve been given was my new identity, a membership number for the local country club, and the name Amy Holder, along with a set of instructions:
Amy Holder is in possession of some extremely sensitive information regarding Victor Connolly and the Connolly family business. She is threatening to use the information against Victor in exchange for money. I cannot stress to you enough how crucial it is to retrieve this information
before she can make good on her threat. You are being trusted with this job and confidentiality is imperative. Neither of us want to get on the bad side of a man like Victor Connolly. You are to watch Amy Holder and learn everything about her. Do not engage until I tell you to but be ready to act at a moment’s notice.
Like clockwork, Amy pushes through the double glass doors of the bar at 5:25 p.m. For the last two weeks, she has stayed home until around five in the evening, then she commutes a measly two miles to this country club, where she’ll drown herself in vodka martinis until closing.
Amy is five foot seven with an athletic build and honey-blond hair that hits right below her shoulders.
The makeup is light, the jewelry is nonexistent, and she rocks a perpetual resting-bitch face.
By the time she slips onto her favorite stool, a bartender with a name tag that reads Morris, in a pressed button-down shirt with the club’s logo, delivers the first of many drinks with a warm smile and a cheerful hello. Devon has definitely gotten more comfortable in playing an active role over the last few years.
“Would you like to see a menu, Miss Holder?” he asks. “Maybe a little later,” she replies.
“Of course, just let me know when you’re ready,” he replies as he walks away.
This exchange is also a constant: same question, same answer. She won’t ask for a menu, and he won’t offer one again, but all it takes is a slight nod and her glass will be refilled within seconds.
I’ve been in and out of this bar for the last eleven days, but it’s the third night in a row that I’ve settled in for the duration, not bothering to hide anymore. She sips her drink and ignores everyone around her. If she has a phone, she has not once taken it out and looked at it. There’s not a single person here, myself included, who hasn’t glanced at their phone at least once, even if it is just to check the time.
But not Amy.
Amy will sit at the bar and drink anywhere from four to six martinis, then she’ll grab her purse and drive the short distance home, some nights swerving back and forth across the yellow line the entire way. She lives in a townhouse that is worth more than it should be because of its location. She’ll wake up the next morning and start the whole process again.
And since there is no way to get inside her house without losing sight of her, hanging around this club is my only option.
From my place across the room, I track groups as they come and go just as I’ve done night after night. The bar area fills with members heading in from rounds of golf and tennis as they either celebrate or commiserate over the day’s game. The restaurant caters to the families looking for a dinner out. Both areas are loud and chaotic.
This sitting around and waiting is getting to me.
Usually, I get a little lead time before a job starts, but within twenty-four hours of getting word from Mr. Smith, I was crossing the city limits into Decatur. Because of the frantic nature of my arrival, I assumed I would be making contact immediately, but I have been instructed to do the exact opposite. And now two weeks have gone by and all I’ve done is watch her drink her dinner.
That doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s happening here.
The reason I’m in a holding pattern is because someone else is working behind the scenes trying to make a deal with her to return the information on her own. Not that they are playing nice, but because it’s the best way to make sure they get back everything she took.
The only thing protecting Amy right now is that she is still in possession of the blackmail material. And regardless of whether she turns it over willingly or I have to take it from her, the second it’s out of her hands she’ll feel the full wrath of Mr. Smith and the Connolly family.
And just as I was warned after the Tate job, I have no illusions that I am alone here. Amy Holder has become the number-one priority to Mr. Smith, so there will be nothing left to chance.
I move to the bar, choosing a stool three down from hers with a big open space between us, and signal for another glass of wine.
Devon sets it down in front of me and asks, “Would you like to see a menu?”
With a smile, I say, “No, thank you,” and he moves off to help a group on the other side of the bar. Even though I’m not sure if I’ll need him for this job, I’ve gotten to where I don’t want to do a job without him. We’ve become an inseparable team.
“You’re new here,” Amy says.
I take a minute to glance around to see if she’s talking to me. When it’s clear she is, I answer, “Yes, just moved to town.” I turn on my stool to face her, opening myself up to a conversation.
She scans me up and down, then turns back to her martini.
“I know what you’re looking for, but you’re not going to find it here.” She swirls a finger in her drink and then brings her finger to her mouth, sucking the liquid off it. “You won’t find it! Tell your people!”
I can’t help but shrink back from her outburst.
Amy brings her glass to her lips and takes a deep drink, finishing it off, then waves the empty glass in the air. “You’ll never, ever, ever find it!” She’s loud enough that several heads turn her way.
She spins around to face me, gives me a big toothy grin, then turns back to the bar. “Gone,” she shout- whispers.
I identified the guy who was sent to watch me watch her a few days ago. Older guy who stays in the back corner of the room, dressed like he’s just finished a round of golf. I know there’s a high probability he’s sending Mr. Smith real-time updates on what is going down right now, so I have to tread carefully, since I was told not to engage her. I don’t want to be taken off this job.
“I believe you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, then turn back to face the bar, taking a sip of the wine in front of me. Mr. Smith will be pissed I’m the reason she’s losing it.
Watching her in my peripheral vision, I see her shoulders deflate almost as if she’s frustrated with me. I watch her for several seconds, then she beams when another cocktail lands in front of her. “Morris! My hero!” she squeals.
The crowd’s interest in her dies down and the volume rises as the conversations around us resume. I swivel just slightly in her direction so I can watch her a little more easily.
She notices I’ve turned and she follows suit. “The first time you showed up at the club was Monday before last at six seventeen p.m. You wore a light-blue tennis skirt and white sleeveless top. Hair pulled back. You ordered a vodka cranberry. The next night you got here at five forty-five p.m. wearing a floral shift dress. You had two glasses of Chardonnay.” She’s pointing the plastic drink stirrer at me while she rattles off the exact arrival time of each visit I’ve made here, including what I ate, drank, and wore, her volume increasing as she goes. “And every night, your midnight blue Lexus SUV follows me home.” She even recites the license plate number.
I’m glancing around the room, noticing we’ve attracted an audience again. My shadow in the back corner is openly staring at us. The only other time I have been confronted like this was by another drunk woman, Jenny Kingston. Images of her lying on the floor, blood pooling around her head, flood my memories, along with the question my boss asked me after: What would you have done if she hadn’t fallen on her own? It’s a question that has haunted me for eight years.
I have to try to salvage this situation. “I’m new to town and this seemed like the best place to meet people.”
“I get it,” she says. “I know they want it back, but we both know I’m dead if I turn it over.”
I glance around the bar, looking for any cameras or mics so I can determine just how much Mr. Smith will hear about what went down tonight between us. There’s nothing obvious, but I can’t rule it out so I keep up the charade.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but if you need help, I can—”
“You’re not here to help me. No one can help me. But I had no choice. I’d already be dead if I didn’t take it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond but instead says, “Just go away already,” before settling back into her cocktail.
I stay at the bar long enough to finish my wine and close out my tab, then I slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.
Once I’m in my car, I drive on autopilot to the small apartment that was set up for me. There’s no doubt Mr. Smith has already heard about the scene we made in the bar. I don’t think what happened tonight would be enough for him to pull me out, but he’ll be watching closer than ever now.
|
It’s three days before I make my next move. I’m hiding across the street from her house, awaiting her arrival home. The second set of instructions came the morning after Amy confronted me at the country club. I was right. Mr. Smith was not happy with me.
Timetable moved up due to your inability to follow simple directions. Use whatever means necessary to locate and retrieve any digital device including cell phone, computers, tablets, hard drives, etc . . . If it can store digital information, take it from her. I shouldn’t need to remind you how sensitive this information is and how you are to handle it.
We’ve thrown away any semblance of being subtle and the warning there is clear—the information I recover is for his eyes only or I’ll find myself in the same place Amy Holder has found herself. I’m not to befriend her, get close to her, draw things out. I am to take everything from her. Immediately.
Amy’s headlights shine across the yard as she swings into her narrow driveway, the right side of her car barely missing the trash can. It’s a five-martini minimum night for sure.
The car cuts off but the driver’s door doesn’t open.
Minutes tick by and she’s still not out of the car. I wait until ten minutes pass before I leave my hiding spot and slowly walk down the driveway to where she’s parked. As soon as I get close enough to the car, I see her slumped form draped over the steering wheel.
Opening the driver’s-side door, I catch her before she falls out onto the concrete. I dig through her purse to find her keys, shoving them in my pocket. Grabbing Amy underneath her arms, I drag her from the car and up the driveway. She loses one shoe and then the other. I almost want to flip off the camera I know is pointed at me, but I resist and keep my body turned away from the street as much as possible. It’s slow and steady until we get to the front door. Blessed silence meets us as I get the door unlocked and open.
I don’t stop moving until I get her to the couch. Once she’s lying down, I go back outside to grab her shoes and purse, and take a moment to search her vehicle. It’s as clean and empty as the day she drove it off the lot.
I start snooping around her house because, at this point, I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Smith to have someone peeping through the windows to make sure I do. The house is as immaculate as her car. There is no technology here. There is a landline phone but no cell, computer, or tablet of any kind. And no chargers that would indicate the tech exists but is just not present. There is one television, but the only channels it receives come from the antenna attached to the top. I check all the usual hiding spots, but it is as if nothing past 1980 has ever entered this house.
I even search for notebooks or notes or scratches of paper in case she went the old-school route.
Nothing.
I sit in a chair and watch her sleep for a little longer before finally calling it a night and letting myself out of her house.
|
Amy relocated to a hotel in downtown Atlanta the day after I searched her house. That was four days ago. I’m in my car watching her stumble out of a corner bar the way she does when she’s had at least four martinis.
I’m getting new instructions almost daily, since Amy’s behavior is changing just as rapidly. The latest tells me Mr. Smith has lost all patience.
Amy is out of control. Bring her in immediately. Non-negotiable.
Bring her in immediately. This is new for me. And bring her in where? Do I grab her and wait for someone to approach me? Stuff her in my trunk? Mr. Smith is acting as erratically as she is. He is freaking out, and I have to wonder how much pressure he’s getting from Victor Connolly to resolve this matter.
Hopping out of the car, I cross the street, maintaining a reasonable distance behind her.
Amy steps into the street as soon as the crosswalk turns green. Her bright-red coat billows behind her as she knocks into people not getting out of her way fast enough. She nearly trips on the curb when she gets to the other side.
She’s making a complete spectacle of herself.
Ignoring the group of sightseers ahead of her, she barrels her way across the sidewalk in front of her hotel.
Amy pauses there, and I veer to the right so I’m off the street but not standing too close to her.
She’s planted herself right in the way of foot traffic, and she’s jostled by the pedestrians trying to move past her, spinning in a circle until she comes to a stop facing me. Her eyes lock on mine.
The recognition on her face is clear.
She raises her hand, pointing a finger at me. “You. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go away.”
I shrink back a few feet, edging toward the corner, but before I can slip away, she moves a little closer and yells, “You can go back and tell that cocksucker Smith to go fuck himself. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. He’s been screwing over people for years and I’ve got all the details! I’ve got so much shit on him. More than he even knows!” A scowl stretches across her face, and then she flips me the bird before turning around and waltzing into the lobby of the hotel as if she didn’t just lose it out on the street.
The shock of what she just said about Mr. Smith washes over my face, then I school my expression into the blank slate I’ve spent years perfecting, because I know I’m being watched right now. I scan the street, looking for the older guy Mr. Smith has planted here. This will be the first he hears that sensitive information she stole wasn’t just from a client. He will, no doubt, be furious to learn this. He barely trusts me to see what she took on Victor Connolly, so there is no way he would have sent me on this job if he thought there was a possibility I would be retrieving information on him. The last thing he would want would be for me to recover something that could be used against him. Something I could use against him.
For years, I’ve been looking for information on him. Anything at all that will clue me in to who he really is. He’s right to worry about what I would do if info about him came into my possession.
You do whatever you have to do to save yourself and the job. That piece of advice Mr. Smith gave me early on has stuck with me. It’s the advice I let guide me on every job.
This job is far from over.
I follow her inside, sticking with the plan I’d made. It takes a few minutes to get to the door that leads to housekeeping. I find a bag in one of the supply closets that has a hotel maid’s uniform stuffed inside. I change quickly, then pull my dark hair up in a tight bun. Digging through the bag, I find the mic and earpiece at the bottom. Once I have the mic clipped to the inside of the collar of my uniform and the earpiece pushed inside my ear, I’m ready to go.
Devon is usually against this type of tech since it’s easy to pick up the frequency if you’re close by, but there was no way to get around it. “I’m ready.”
In the earpiece, I hear Devon say, “Good to start. Be careful.” He got inside the building yesterday to hack into their system and is now working it from a van parked at the curb. He’ll have one eye on me and
the other on the hotel’s security feed. The plan is to freeze the camera when an area I need to move through is empty, then he’ll unfreeze it after I’ve passed through. I’ll work my way through the hotel in stops and starts, invisible to the cameras above me.
The cleaning carts are pushed off to the side, where they wait for the graveyard shift to restock them, since all the rooms were cleaned hours ago. I grab the closest cart, shoving my black duffel into the space left for dirty linens, and call for an elevator.
“Elevator is empty. I’ll wait for the hall to clear before I open the doors.” “Copy,” I say.
The doors open and I push the cart inside, pressing the button for the fifth floor. When the elevator doors open, I move the cart out into the hall.
“Hold there,” Devon says. “Amy has just gotten off the main elevator and is making her way to her room. We need her on that camera, so I’m not cutting it until she’s inside.”
I check my watch. “What’s taking her so long? She should have already made it in.”
My gaze bounces from one end of the hall to the other, praying no one decides to come out of their room right now. I don’t want one single person mentioning the presence of a maid with a cart on this floor at this time of day.
“She’s at her door. On her fifth try getting the key card in the slot.” “Good grief,” I mumble.
“Okay, she’s inside. You are good to go.”
And I’m off, pushing the cart down the corridor then turning toward Amy’s room when I get to the main hall.
Skidding to a stop in front of her door, I rap on the door and yell, “Housekeeping!”
It’s less than a minute before Amy opens the door. I don’t give her a chance to say anything, I just shove the cart through the door, backing her up with it, then let the door swing shut behind me.
