Lauren

There were numerous times I went to Mr. Astor’s house. I sometimes drop him off after he consumed alcohol, picking him up now and even in the morning. In my three years of life as his secretary, I must have gone to his house at least a hundred times, if not more, but I never put my foot inside the house, even for a moment.

That place was forbidden for me to visit, as Mr. Astor told me on the first day of my job that he hated it when people touched his stuff. But that wasn’t true. I touched a million of that stuff that he owned for years, from his clothes to shoes, laptop to phone, but he barely reacted to any of that. Just like any other person, he was okay with me arranging his table every morning. Even if I put something inside the cabinet, he would just ask me about that and hardly scold me or anything about that.

In my mind, I came to the conclusion after seeing his reaction that he was hiding someone in his apartment. I made a fiction about him being a serial killer, who was kill