Rogers rounded the corner, flashlight hitting my face.
—What are you doing back here? —he snapped.
I met his gaze, shaking inside.
—Taking out the laundry, sir. The truck’s almost here. Unless you want to dig through it yourself?
He kicked the wheel. The cart shook.
My heart stopped.
From inside, a faint crack—bone, branch, or God knows what.
Rogers tilted his head, hand on his gun.
—What was that?
—Rats —I blurted, forcing a nervous laugh. —Ever since they cut pest control, they’re the size of cats. I’m not sticking my hands in there.
Disgust won.
—Get out of here. Now.
I pushed the cart with everything I had. Every step was a prayer: don’t cry, don’t cough, don’t breathe too loud.
We rolled through the service ramp, past shouting chefs, clattering plates, clouds of steam. I was invisible—until I couldn’t be.
Because in fifteen minutes, Eleanor was signing the papers.
And Alexander was burning with fever.
I hid the cart in a camera-free alcove between the wine cellar and cold storage. I uncovered his face—gray skin, blue lips, eyes barely focused.
—What time? —he rasped.
—Nine fifteen.
Terror filled his eyes.