Chapter 3 - Fifty Thousand Dollars
At 9:57 the next morning, Norah stood inside Vincent’s kitchen holding a carton of eggs and wondering whether she had lost her mind.
The mansion had three kitchens.
She had been assigned the smallest.
“Small” was relative.
The space still had two ovens, a marble island, and enough equipment to run a restaurant.
But there were no chefs.
No assistants.
Only Norah.
And two security cameras.
She looked directly at one.
“That’s comforting.”
A voice behind her answered.
“They’re not watching you.”
Norah nearly dropped the eggs.
Vincent stood in the doorway.
He wore black trousers and a charcoal shirt.
Still thin.
Still pale.
But he was standing without holding the wall.
“What are they watching?”
“Anyone who comes near my food.”
Norah looked back at the camera.
“That’s significantly less comforting.”
Vincent walked inside.
“What are you making?”
“Eggs.”
He stopped.
“No.”
“You told me something different.”
“I meant another soup.”
“You hired the wrong woman.”
Vincent folded his arms.
Norah placed bread in a skillet with butter.
“Sit.”
He stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“You told me to sit yesterday.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“This is my house.”
“And this is currently my kitchen.”
Vincent looked at her for several seconds.
Then, unbelievably, sat.
Norah scrambled the eggs slowly.
No cream.
No cheese.
No herbs.
Just eggs, butter, salt, and pepper.
“What’s the toast?”
“Bread.”
“I see that.”
“Then why ask?”
Vincent shook his head.
“You’re either brave or stupid.”
“My mother considered both family traits.”
Ten minutes later, Norah placed a small plate in front of him.
Vincent stared at it.
Norah did not.
She turned away and cleaned the counter.
“What are you doing?”
“Not watching.”
“Why?”
“Because being stared at while eating is awful.”
“How do you know?”
“My little brother hated vegetables.”
Vincent picked up the fork.
His hand shook slightly.
Norah heard it click against the plate.
She continued wiping the counter.
He took a bite.
Waited.
Another.
Norah kept her back turned.
Three minutes later, Vincent spoke.
“You can turn around.”
Half the eggs were gone.
Norah smiled.
“Good?”
“Acceptable.”
“You ate half.”
“I was hungry.”
“That’s usually how food works.”
Vincent looked down to hide a smile.
He finished almost everything.
By noon, the entire household knew.
By two, someone in Vincent’s organization knew.
By four, the wrong person knew.
Norah knew none of this.
She spent the afternoon planning dinner.
Vincent rejected her suggestion of pasta.
“Too heavy.”
“Chicken?”
“Maybe.”
“Vegetables?”
“Don’t ruin the relationship.”
“You’re thirty-four.”
“Exactly. Old enough to make decisions.”
“Bad ones.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Do you speak to everyone like this?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
Norah paused.
Because you look less frightening when you’re complaining about vegetables.
She wisely kept that thought private.
That evening, Vincent ate chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots cooked in broth.
Not everything.
But enough.
When Norah left the kitchen, Enzo was waiting.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“No.”
“He ate twice.”
“That’s not a miracle.”
“For him it is.”
Norah picked up her coat.
Enzo noticed something slip from the pocket.
A photograph.
He bent down first.
Norah grabbed for it.
Too late.
Enzo saw Liam.
Then the writing.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU WORK.
His expression changed instantly.
“Who gave you this?”
“Nobody.”
“Norah.”
“It’s personal.”
“Someone threatened you at Vincent Rossy’s house.”
“They didn’t threaten me here.”
“They mentioned here.”
“Give it back.”
Enzo did.
But his eyes remained serious.
“Who is Liam?”
“My brother.”
“What does he owe?”
Norah stared.
“How do you know he owes anything?”
“I grew up in Brooklyn.”
She looked away.
“Fifty thousand.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You’re paying money to someone you don’t know?”
“I know the collector.”
“Name.”
“No.”
“Norah.”
“I said no.”
She put on her coat.
“I appreciate that you care because I happen to be feeding your boss. But this was my problem before I came here.”
She left.
Enzo waited exactly thirty seconds.
Then walked upstairs.
Vincent was reading a shipping report.
“How was dinner?”
“Vegetables were unnecessary.”
Enzo put the photograph on his desk.
Vincent looked at it.
Then at Enzo.
“What is this?”
“Norah dropped it.”
Vincent read the back.
Something cold entered his expression.
“Explain.”
“Her brother owes fifty thousand.”
“To?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“And somebody knows she works here.”
“Yes.”
Vincent leaned back.
His appetite had returned.
Now, immediately, somebody had placed pressure on the person responsible.
Coincidence existed.
Vincent simply did not trust it.
“Find out who.”
“Without telling her?”
“Yes.”
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“She specifically told me it was her problem.”
Vincent looked at him as though that were irrelevant.
Enzo laughed.
“You know, this might be why people find you difficult.”
“Find them.”
Enzo walked toward the door.
“Quietly.”
“Obviously.”
“And don’t pay the debt.”
Enzo turned.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“If we pay it before knowing why it exists, we lose information.”
Enzo nodded.
After he left, Vincent looked at the photograph.
Norah Bennett.
Three weeks ago, she was invisible.
Yesterday, she made soup.
Today, she became the first person in months capable of putting food into his body.
And tonight someone had reminded her they knew exactly where she worked.
Vincent picked up his phone.
“Double security at the gates.”
A voice answered.
“Problem?”
“Maybe.”
He stared at Liam Bennett’s photograph.
“And find everything you can about Norah Bennett’s brother.”
Vincent ended the call.
Across town, Norah entered her apartment and locked three locks behind her.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds there was only breathing.
Then a voice she had not heard in eleven months said her name.
“Norah?”
She froze.
“Liam?”
Her brother sounded terrified.
“You have to stop paying them.”
“What?”
“Listen to me.”
“Where are you?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Liam—”
“They don’t care about the money anymore.”
Norah gripped the phone.
“What are you talking about?”
“I borrowed from the wrong people.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
A sound came from his side.
A door.
Maybe footsteps.
Liam lowered his voice.
“They’re connected to the house where you work.”
Norah went completely still.
“What house?”
“You know what house.”
“Liam.”
“The Rossy estate.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“How?”
“I can’t explain over the phone.”
“You’d better start.”
Another sound.
Closer.
Liam whispered, “The man Vincent Rossy thinks poisoned him wasn’t working alone.”
The call ended.
Norah remained standing in her dark apartment.
The phone pressed to her ear.
May you like
And for the first time, she realized her brother’s debt and Vincent’s poisoning might be part of the same story.
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