Chapter 3
How dare he? Ugh…I can’t believe him.
My mind is still a bit cloudy from passing out.
I was surprised to find myself in his bed.
He didn’t let me hit the floor like every other guest would.
I can deal with rude guests. I can handle dismissive guests.
But him? I’m not even sure what category to file him under.
This is uncharted territory for me. I haven’t met a man like him.
I don’t even think I understand him. It’s usually easy to get a read on the guests. For some reason, I can’t figure him out. He seems kind but wicked, rough but gentle, and serious yet playful.
I’m not quite sure what to make of that. One thing I know is that I need to get as far away from him as possible.
The elevator doors close on me, and I press my forehead to the cool, brushed steel and suck in a breath.
He looked at my sketchbook. Why was he looking in my cart anyway? Just because he let me sleep in his bed doesn’t give him the right to go through my things.
I don’t let anyone look at my sketchbook.
Not even Renée. The last person who looked at it was Marguerite.
I always liked to show her my recent sketches.
She would kiss my cheek and tell me how talented I was.
I tried to show it to my mom once. She had a very different reaction. She would just laugh.
You think you’re something special, don’t you? Well, let me be the first to clue you in. You’re nothing, and you’ll always be nothing.
That was when I realized I was going to live a very different life from the one I had with Marguerite. She meant everything to me. She still does. Death doesn't change that.
Renée thinks I need to let some of the grief go. I don’t know how she does it, how she lives without the constricting feeling in her chest. Marguerite was her mother. It should hurt more for her.
Maybe it’s because Renée had her for longer. She got to experience that love for longer than I did. And what hurts the most isn’t that I lost someone who loved me. It is the fact that I lost the only person who did.
The elevator drops twelve floors. I count the brass numbers above the door so I don't start crying. Anger first. Crying later. Anger keeps the spine straight. Crying buys me nothing in a hotel I'm still, technically, employed by.
The doors open onto the staff-only corridor. Roger is at the service desk, waiting to pounce on the answer that ends my career. He has been waiting since I left. And that is when I remember the actual reason I went up to the penthouse. I might be unemployed by the end of the day.
Roger’s eyebrows go up the second the doors part. He puts his pen down. He folds his hands across his clipboard. "How did it go?"
The words are on the tip of my tongue: He doesn't know about the car.
But how do I explain exactly what I saw to him? Roger will probably call me a liar or accuse me of something completely nefarious. And since I refused to sign Mr. Nightingale’s NDA, I don’t think he will be inclined to vouch for me at all.
Roger will find out, and my job is probably toast. Whoever tells him first decides whether I'm cooked or just warned.
This is the second secret of the day. A bit tame for a regular day at the Cresswell. Today, I'm keeping one from Roger, too. Hopefully, it’s never discovered.
I look at Roger. My fingers tighten around my cart. I keep my face very flat. "It went fine."
Roger’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe me. "That’s it? He doesn’t want you fired? He just…accepted it?"
“No, he didn’t. He was perfectly understanding about the entire situation.
” Lie. “In fact, he expressed his satisfaction with my services.” Technically not a lie.
I did save him. If not for the scratch on his car, who knows when he would have gotten free?
Probably never. Come to think of it, he didn’t even thank me for helping him out.
I should have left him there to rot.
It doesn't matter that he was handcuffed. He was naked when he asked me to lean in. He breathed against my neck. If I wanted to, I could report him for sexual assault and watch his expensive silence break open like a bad egg.
I don't want to. I want a sandwich.
“Are you sure?” Roger is still glaring at me.
I nod.
He looks at me a beat longer than is comfortable. He makes a small mark on his clipboard. He turns and walks away without a word.
Whew.
I spend the rest of the day looking over my shoulder, half expecting to see Mr. Nightingale march in with Roger in tow. But as each hour ticks by, nothing happens. I’m safe. At least for now.
Carmen meets me at the staff door. We take the bus together occasionally, on nights when she doesn’t go to a bar with friends or doesn’t have to pick up her kids.
I don’t have any friends. Not for lack of trying.
But because I don’t know how to let people in.
I don’t know how people are so comfortable talking about their personal life.
For example, the first day Carmen and I met, I found out she was married with kids and that her husband was a recovering addict.
Ten years sober. She told me how hard it was for them.
And I didn’t say a single word. Nothing at all.
I don’t know how to bare my soul to anyone but Marguerite. When she died, a part of me died too.
So when Carmen — once again, out of sheer courtesy, I’m sure — invites me to a family barbecue that weekend, I shake my head and say, “I have plans.”
She knows better than to believe that, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Well, this is me,” Carmen says as she rises to her feet. She thrusts a granola bar into my hands. “Eat this. You’re as white as a ghost…and get some rest. You’re of no use to anyone if you’re dead. I’ll see you tomorrow, Suze. Good night.”
I smile back at her. “Good night.”
I watch as she gets off the bus. Then I tear off the wrapper and devour the granola bar. It tastes like the best thing in the world. I try not to moan as I chew.
After three more stops, I’m on foot toward my building. It’s forever in some state of construction. I used to wait for the renovation to wrap up — not anymore. It’s just not happening. But the apartment is cheap, and that’s the only thing that counts.
The lobby is a square of stained carpet and a bulletin board with the same flyer for a missing cat since I moved in. My key sticks in the lock. I jiggle it. I lift the handle. The door gives.
The smell of fish hits me instantly.
“Hey,” Maeve says from the stove. She’s flipping a fish in a hot pan. Her short red hair is pinned back.
I like Maeve, even though I don’t know her last name or much about her at all.
Well, I know she’s in nursing school. We say hello when we cross paths, and we replace the toilet paper without keeping score.
We don’t get in each other’s business. And honestly?
That simple trade is the closest thing to peace I can ever get.
Her thin lips curl into a wide smile. “Just making some dinner. You want some?”
I shake my head. I don’t like fish. There’s no need to tell her that. “I’m not hungry.” Another lie of the day. Now I’ll have to wait for Maeve to go to bed before I sneak out for some dinner.
“Well, I’ll leave some here if you change your mind.”
I nod even though I know I won’t.
My stomach grumbles as I make my way to my room. Maybe I should have sucked it up and accepted her dinner offer. I close the door of my room behind me. I lock it.
The room is a closet with a window that looks out onto the side of the next building. That wreath across the airshaft has hung there for two Christmases. I've drawn it twice. I pay more for this room than I should because nobody else wanted the small one, and the door has a lock.
She did not let you have one.
I feel my phone buzzing in my bag. My heart skips a beat. I’m apprehensive. It’s been a couple of hours since my mother’s last text demanding money. I pull it out anyway. Relief floods through me when I see Renée’s name flash on my screen. I answer without hesitation.
“Hey. Is this a good time?”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I have something for you. I was going through the boxes Mom left in the attic.”
“You just got around to it? That was years ago. What made you do it?”
“Curiosity, I guess. Plus, the house has just been sitting there for a while. Chad and I finally decided to sell. That is…if it’s okay with you.”
I feel a stab in my chest. It’s absolutely not okay with me. There are years of memories in that house. But what can I do? I’m not her child. I have no right, no say.
“It’s fine.” I hear myself say. “It’s about time.”
“Uh-huh. But look, I found a couple of photographs of you and Mom. There are some photos of you painting that little terracotta pot — the one with the flowers we put on the porch.”
I don't say anything for a second. I just let myself soak in the memory. It calms the ringing in my ears. This is not so bad after all.
“Do you want me to mail it?”
“Yes, please. That’ll mean a lot. Thanks, Renée.”
“Of course. Now that that’s out of the way, how’s work?”
“It’s fine.”
“Liar. Are you painting?”
I glance at the unfinished painting in the corner of my room. It has barely taken shape yet, so I can’t decipher the image in my head. “Yes.”
"Good. I think…" She pauses. "She would have wanted to be here — to see what you're creating."
I don’t answer. My throat is too choked up to do so. Marguerite was the first person to believe in me. She bought me my first sketchbook and taught me to mix colors. I was supposed to live with Renée after she died. But no. My mother showed up the week of her funeral and took me away.
I thought it was because she loved me. I learned pretty quickly that it was because I had something that she wanted. My college fund.
"I mean it, Suz. Put it online. The right person will find you, and your whole life will change."
We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. I know she means well, but it doesn’t matter.
"Tell Chad and the babies hi from me," I say before I hang up.
I sit on the bed with the phone still warm in my palm. I draw a long breath.
The phone rings again. Dammit, Renée. I don’t want to talk about this. Not when I’m vulnerable, hungry and on the verge of breaking. Please, not tonight.
The ringing doesn’t stop. I answer without looking at the screen.
"Suzanne." The voice that answers is definitely not Renée’s. I know that voice. I heard it months ago when she screamed at me after I told her never to call again. Sherry. "You’ve been ignoring me all day."
"What do you want?"
"That is not how you talk to your mother." I picture her growling in that ugly way she always does. Her lips would curl downward, and her eyes would fill with so much venom in them that I’d start to wonder if she was really my mother.
“What do you want?” I ask again.
"I'm not well."
"Okay."
"Did you hear me? I said I'm not well."
"I heard you."
“And you have nothing to say to me? I have to get tests done. I could die, and you don’t even care. I don’t expect you to. You never cared about family anyway. Just give me the money I asked for. $10,000 should cover it. I know you have it.”
I don’t even blink. “I don’t.”
“You’re lying. You still have Maggy’s china, don’t you? You have her rings. I know you do. That should fetch at least $5,000.”
I freeze. They’re currently sitting safely in one of my suitcases. Away from my mom’s greedy, sticky fingers. I square my shoulders. I will do anything to protect Marguerite’s things from her.
“Stay away from me. Don’t call again.”
I hang up before she does because I want the upper hand.
She will punish me for this for weeks. She will call Renée. She will tell anyone who will listen that I'm ungrateful, that I think I'm better than her, that money has gone to my head — money I don't have, in a job I'm about to lose for scratching a car.
I cannot bring myself to care today. I put the phone face down on the nightstand. I sit very still on the edge of the bed.
My body is begging for rest. My mind, though? It’s been hijacked. I have not stopped thinking about him — his breath near my ear, his voice cracking when he said my name — and that I leaned in.
Well, he asked me to. What else was I supposed to do? You were supposed to back away and get the hell out of that room. I still have no idea why I let myself remain there for that long. That is a problem.
I stand up.
The easel has been folded in the corner for days.
I drag it open. The cheap paint is crusted on the lids, and I twist them with my teeth because my hands will not hold the cap steady.
I stand in my uniform, open a tube of cadmium red, push it onto the canvas with the heel of my palm, and try to continue the painting.
Then I sing. Whatever comes out of my mouth. Just like Marguerite. She hummed a line of nothing over the dishes.
Somewhere between the red and the next color, I'm crying, and I don't stop painting. This is how I survive her — my hands move while my face leaks.
I paint until I cannot see the canvas.
The bus the next morning is full of people who slept on it. I'm not one of them. I have a piece of toast at the kitchenette that I cannot finish, and I drink water until I'm sick of it.
At 6:00 a.m., I'm at the service desk. Roger has a new sheet in his hand, ready to "or else" me into unemployment. I walk toward him slowly. It is a mistake. He has already clocked it. "Jenkins, I have a new schedule for you.”
I’m suddenly filled with a sense of dread. I think I know what’s coming.
He hands the sheet across the desk. I take it.
The sheet is one line.
Penthouse. Exclusive assignment. Until further notice.
I look up.
Roger is smiling. "The guest in the penthouse called the front desk yesterday. He was very specific. He requested you. By name. You will report to the penthouse for the remainder of his stay. You are not on any other floors. You are not on any other rooms. He has asked, additionally, that you not be reassigned without his personal approval. You cannot be reassigned until he’s satisfied with your services. "
I freeze.
Mr. Nightingale is far from being done with me.