The library had been arranged like a stage. The fireplace glowed softly. Thunder rattled the windows. On the small mahogany table beside his chair lay the bait: an open cream envelope stuffed with crisp hundred-dollar bills—five thousand dollars. Carelessly placed, as if forgotten by a senile old man.
To Charles, it was nothing. To most, it was salvation.
He heard the doorknob turn.
It was Maria Lopez, his newest housekeeper, employed for barely three weeks. Young, widowed, worn by hardship. Her husband had died in a warehouse accident, leaving her with debt and a seven-year-old son.
Schools had closed because of the storm, and her apartment roof leaked. With no babysitter, she had begged permission to bring her child.
“Stay here, Ethan,” Maria whispered anxiously. “Sit on the rug. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Mr. Whitaker is sleeping.”
“Yes, Mom,” came the obedient reply.
“If I lose this job, we won’t have anywhere to go tonight,” she added, voice trembling.
Charles listened as she left the room.
Now only two remained: the wealthy man pretending to sleep and the poor child alone with temptation.
Silence stretched. The clock ticked. Firewood cracked.