Chapter 4 4

Betsey parked her cart in the service alcove of the Penthouse hallway, positioning it carefully so it was out of the direct line of sight of the main security cameras. She reached into a stack of folded towels on the bottom shelf. Her hand brushed over the crisp linen, her mind replaying the encounter in the elevator. A calculated risk. Dani was now terrified, but also more dangerous. She would be watching.

A quiet footstep made her jump. She turned around. Thomas Jenkins, one of the senior butlers, was standing there holding a silver coffee pot. He had a kind face and soft eyes that always looked at her with a mixture of hope and pity.

"Oh, Thomas," she breathed, putting a hand to her chest. "You startled me."

"Sorry, Betsey." Thomas smiled warmly. "I just came up to prep the coffee station. You look a little... pale. Was Dani giving you a hard time again?"

Betsey looked down at her shoes. "Just the usual."

Thomas stepped closer. "Listen, if you ever want to... vent. Maybe grab a drink after our shift? There's a dive bar on 8th that's cheap."

Betsey felt a pang of guilt. Thomas was a good man. He was normal. He wanted a normal life, a normal girlfriend. He had no idea he was asking a ghost out for a drink.

"I can't, Thomas," she lied softly. "I have a second job tonight. I don't have time."

Thomas's face fell. He nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. "Right. Of course. You work too hard, Betsey."

He retreated down the hall, his footsteps silent on the carpet. Betsey watched him go, feeling the isolation of her life wrap around her like a cold blanket.

She took a deep breath, pushing the interaction from her mind. She approached the double doors of the Presidential Suite. She keyed in the staff code. The lock clicked, a heavy, expensive sound.

She pushed the door open. The suite was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Central Park, the trees a riot of autumn orange and gold. The furniture was modern Italian, low and sleek.

She began her routine. She checked the mini-bar, counting the bottles. She fluffed the pillows on the sofa.

She moved toward the window to check the drapes. As she passed the center of the room, she stopped.

A window on the far side of the suite was cracked open. A breeze fluttered the sheer curtains. That was a security violation. The windows were supposed to be sealed.

She walked over to close it. As she reached for the latch, she looked down.

There, on the pristine white wool carpet, was a single drop of red liquid.

She crouched down. She touched it with her gloved finger. It was wet. It was warm.

Fresh blood.

Her combat instincts flared. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn't alone.

She didn't gasp. She didn't call out. She slowly stood up, her eyes scanning the room. She noted the heavy velvet drapes, the shadow beneath the grand piano, the slightly ajar door to the master bedroom.

She reached out and grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the side table. It was an improvised weapon, but it would do.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

Betsey spun around, dropping the butler facade instantly. Her knees bent, her center of gravity dropping, the vase raised to strike.

A large, dark figure lunged from the shadows of the bathroom doorway.