CHAPTER 2 — The Elevator Scent

Irene opened the envelope with a knife.

She had considered throwing it away unopened.

That would have been the sensible response to finding something with her full name pushed under her apartment door after midnight.

Instead, she had slept for five hours, woken up, made coffee, and spent breakfast looking at the envelope from across the kitchen.

Mr. Mustard had offered nothing useful.

So now Irene sat at the small table in an old T-shirt, hair still tied badly from the night before, and pulled out three sheets of cream-colored paper.

Still, there was no company logo.

The first page began:

PRIVATE EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITY

Irene stopped.

“Sounds legitimate.”

Mr. Mustard was under his heat lamp.

She kept reading.

The position was temporary.

Six months.

The employer required complete discretion during and after the contract period. The successful applicant would undergo background screening and would be expected to attend private and public functions as required.

The applicant had to be unmarried, not currently in any form of relationship, without a criminal record, and willing to sign a nondisclosure agreement.

Irene read that part again.

Then she checked the back of the page in case there was some explanation she had missed.

There wasn’t.

“What kind of job asks if you have a boyfriend before telling you what the job is?”

Mr. Mustard scratched one foot against the side of his tank.

“Exactly.”

The second page listed preliminary compensation.

That was where Irene stopped making comments.

Three months of rent paid in advance.

One month of Belle’s school tuition.

One month of Amanda’s rehabilitation expenses.

Her eyes moved back to the top.

Then down again.

The exact institutions were not named. Neither was her landlord. But the wording was specific enough that whoever had sent the letter knew those expenses existed.

Irene put the page down.

For a few seconds, she just sat there.

That was not normal at all.

Someone knowing her name was one thing. Her name was on bills, work records, social media she barely used, and probably fifty databases she had never agreed to be in.

Knowing about Belle’s tuition and Amanda’s rehab was different.

She picked up the third page.

There was a phone number at the bottom.

No email address.

No website.

No person to contact.

Just a number and a line telling her that if she wanted to proceed to preliminary screening, she needed to call within seventy-two hours.

Irene checked the envelope again.

Nothing.

She turned the pages over one more time.

Still nothing.

“No.”

She folded everything back together, walked to the trash, and dropped it in.

That was the end of that.

She had watched enough scam warnings at the convenience store to know that strangers did not suddenly appear with money because they had good intentions.

Especially strangers who already knew which bills hurt the most.

Irene took her coffee into the bathroom and showered before her cleaning shift.

She did not think about the envelope while washing her hair. She definitely did not think about three months of rent. Or Amanda’s rehab. Or the fact that Belle’s tuition payment next month was already going to be difficult.

Then she got dressed, checked the time, and fed Mr. Mustard.

Then she stood beside the trash can.

“No.”

She picked up her bag and then made it to the front door before she stopped.

“This is how people get murdered.”

Mr. Mustard looked at her from the tank.

Irene went back to the trash. And six minutes after throwing the letter away, she pulled it back out.

There was coffee grounds on one corner. She wiped them off with a paper towel.

“I’m not calling.”

She folded the pages and shoved them into the back pocket of her bag.

“I’m just keeping it.”

Mr. Mustard did not seem convinced. Neither was she.

Her cleaning job that afternoon was in one of those residential buildings Irene normally only entered because someone was paying her to clean inside it.

The lobby had a front desk, polished stone floors, and fresh flowers taller than Mr. Mustard’s entire tank.

Irene signed in, took the service elevator up, and spent the next four hours cleaning an apartment large enough that she briefly wondered why one person needed three bathrooms.

Then she told herself that rich people had their reasons. Her job was to clean around them.

By the time she finished, her lower back hurt and her hands smelled faintly of disinfectant even through the gloves.

She changed out of the cleaning apron, tied the trash bags, and checked her phone.

Two missed messages from Belle.

One from Amanda.

Irene opened Belle’s first.

Did you send the rest?

She stared at it.

Apparently the one hundred fifty dollars had already become the first half of three hundred instead of the amount Irene had actually agreed to send.

She typed:

No. I told you 150 was all I could do.

Belle started typing immediately but Irene locked her phone.

She could deal with that on the bus.

Amanda’s message could wait too.

She was tired enough that any conversation with her mother right now would probably end with Irene agreeing to pay for something before she understood what it was.

She carried the trash down to the service area, washed her hands again, and headed for the elevators.

The letter in her bag felt heavier than three sheets of paper should.

She told herself she was not considering it. She was considering the money.

The elevator arrived empty. 

Irene stepped inside and pressed the lobby button, but just before the doors closed, a large hand caught between them.

The doors opened again and a man stepped inside.

Irene moved slightly to one side.

He was tall enough that the elevator suddenly felt smaller. Dark hair, broad shoulders, expensive-looking clothes without anything flashy about them. His jacket sleeves had been pushed up, exposing a black tattoo that covered most of his right forearm and disappeared beneath the fabric.

He glanced at Irene once, then looked toward the numbers above the door.

Good.

She was too tired for conversation anyway.

The doors closed and the elevator started down.

Irene adjusted the strap of her bag.

Beside her, the stranger went completely still. She noticed because a second earlier he had been tapping one finger against his thigh. Now he wasn’t moving at all.

Irene looked at him.

His head turned slowly toward her. Golden-brown eyes fixed on her face, then dropped toward her neck.

Irene frowned.

He breathed in. Actually breathed in through his nose.

She stared.

The man’s brows pulled together.

He leaned slightly closer and did it again.

Irene looked down at herself and she was convinced that nothing was visibly leaking in her cleaning supplies.

When she looked back up, he was still staring at her.

His expression had gone from mildly irritated to genuinely offended, although Irene had no idea what she had done in the last fifteen seconds besides stand there.

Finally, he said, “What the hell is that smell?”