New York
Katrine
United States
5:45 PM
I picked up the box with the tips of my fingers, as if it might bite me, and went inside.
The deadbolt. The latch. The chain.
I glanced through the window. The street was quiet, indifferent, cruel in its normalcy, before I yanked the curtain shut with a sharp motion. I stood with my back against the wall for a long second, staring at nothing.
He had found me.
The conclusion settled into my mind with the cold certainty of a mathematical fact. Not a coincidence. Not a delivery mistake. The box bore my order number. My receipt. My name, in a way, scrawled in the ink of a pizzeria printer.
He knows where I live.
But he hadn't made a move yet. And that was precisely what chilled me to the bone, not the action, but its absence. A man who simply wanted to silence me wouldn't have waited. A man who left an empty box at my gate without a word, without a threat, without even a signature... that kind of man wasn't trying to eliminate me.
He wanted to watch me be afraid.
Sadist.
The word landed in my mind with unpleasant clarity. He wanted to see me pacing in circles, drawing the curtains, checking the locks. He wanted to drive me insane before delivering the final blow if there even was a final blow. Perhaps psychological torture was the goal.
The police. The idea surfaced, then immediately deflated.
He wasn't stupid. A man capable of making a body disappear in a forest on the outskirts of New York without leaving so much as a single line in the newspapers had probably anticipated that I would go to the authorities. Maybe he even knew I had already visited that police station. Maybe the blue-eyed officer hadn't been a coincidence either.
I pushed the thought away. I was becoming paranoid.
Which, under the circumstances, was a perfectly reasonable reaction.
And Arabelle?
Her name hit me like a weight.
She lived here. She slept two doors down from me. She opened that gate every morning thinking about her coffee and her insufferable boss. She hadn't asked for any of this, and yet I had dragged her into my wake without even asking her opinion, simply because we shared a home, simply because she existed within its walls.
How long had he known I lived here?
I had no answer.
And the absence of an answer was, without question, the most terrifying thing about this evening.
That was when it started.
An itch at the back of my throat. Familiar. Wrong. I coughed once.
Then again.
Then my body decided to take matters into its own hands, and I collapsed to my knees on the bedroom tiles as a coughing fit emptied my lungs. When it finally stopped, I looked at my palm.
Dark red.
Glistening beneath the ceiling light.
I stared at the blood for a second too long, then rose mechanically and crossed to my nightstand. The pills were there, small, white, indifferent to everything that had just happened.
I looked at them for a long time.
When had I last taken them?
Montreal. Three months ago.
My doctor had transferred my care to a colleague in New York. I still had the name and address somewhere in my emails. I had never gone. I'd abandoned the treatment with the same quiet carelessness with which I abandoned anything that required sustained effort.
And now my body was presenting the bill.
I swallowed three tablets dry, my throat still burning, then left the room to find something to clean the floor.
Once the stains were gone—practical gesture, automatic gesture, don't think—I locked my bedroom door and sat on the bed.
The house was silent.
Arabelle wouldn't be home tonight. There was a reception at the firm. She had told me about it that morning with the enthusiasm of a woman secretly hoping her insufferable boss would embarrass himself at the buffet.
She probably wouldn't return until tomorrow morning.
The news passed through me with strange ambivalence: relief that she wasn't here tonight, guilt for feeling relieved.
I picked up the box and examined it beneath the bedside lamp.
Then I fetched a fine makeup brush, pencil lead ground into powder on a sheet of paper, and transparent tape, a technique learned from a crime show during a sleepless night. Effectiveness not guaranteed, effort provided.
I spent twenty minutes inspecting every surface, every corner, every seam of the box.
Fingerprints? Nothing.
Hidden message? Nothing.
Shipping address? Nothing.
The complete absence of clues was, in its own way, the message.
I set the box on the floor and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, carving a white line across the opposite wall.
Sharp.
Merciless.
I wasn't going to sleep tonight. That much was certain.
I sat up, opened the drawer of my nightstand, and took out a notebook, one of those blank notebooks people buy with good intentions and never open.
I opened it.
And I wrote. From the beginning. The delivery. The forest. The scream.The blood on the dead leaves.
The voice that had said I don't believe in luck with the calmness of someone ordering coffee.
The green eyes. The escape. The fainting. The empty box.
Everything I had seen. Everything I had deduced. Everything I felt without allowing myself to express it anywhere except on these silent pages.
If something happened to me, there had to be a record. I finally put down the pen at first light, the notebook filled with my cramped handwriting.
I hadn't slept.
I already knew that.
★★★
The noise pulled me from the half-sleep I had eventually slipped into, sitting against my headboard with the notebook still open on my lap.
A dull sound.
Muffled.
The kind of noise people make when they're trying not to make any.
I stood without thinking.
Grabbed the vase sitting on the hallway dresser—a heavy ceramic piece capable of doing real damage—and crept toward the stairs.
Step by silent step.
Blood pounded in my temples. A silhouette emerged from the downstairs hallway. I raised my arm.
—Katrine.
I froze.
Arabelle was staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs, evening bag still slung over her shoulder, her eyes wide with an expression caught somewhere between shock and offense.
—Oh.
That was all I managed.
She climbed the last two steps, took the vase from my hands with the delicacy of a woman rescuing something valuable from a dangerous child.
— Careful. That vase came from a market in Lisbon. There are only two of them in the world.
I nodded.
She studied me for another second, then pressed a palm to my forehead. Her expression changed instantly.
—Sweet Jesus. You're burning up. Haven't you slept?
—A little insomnia. New job fatigue.
She looked at me with that look, the one she reserved for lies she chose not to challenge.
Then she set down her bag and motioned for me to sit, disappearing toward the kitchen with the calm authority of someone who had decided to take charge.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table. Private number. I answered with the caution of a bomb technician.
—Miss Arzons?
The voice was composed, crisp, recognizable among a thousand others.
—Speaking.
—Your application has been accepted. Could you come in this afternoon to sign the contract? You'll begin tomorrow. I'll need to train you as quickly as possible.
—Of course, Mr. Gray.
He wished me a good day and hung up.
I looked up.
Arabelle stood in the kitchen doorway, a mug in each hand, watching me with a grin stretching from ear to ear.
—Secretary Arzons. Congratulations.
She bounced slightly, nearly spilling the coffee.
Under other circumstances, I would have found her adorable. At that precise moment, however, my brain was occupied calculating how many hours of sleep I was missing and whether the fever would worsen before the afternoon.
—You should be thrilled,she insisted, setting the mugs on the table. A secretary position with More? Katie, that's huge.
—I know.
—You don't look like it.
—That's just how I function.
She sat across from me and regarded me with the disarming honesty that was her trademark.
—You need to relax.
She wasn't wrong. My professional life had just taken a major leap forward. My personal life, meanwhile, resembled a crime scene waiting to be cordoned off.
Should I have stayed in Montreal?
The thought passed through me, bitter and useless. I pushed it away.
★★★
Arabelle helped me get ready with cheerful efficiency and a pronounced tendency to comment on every item of clothing I pulled from the closet.
I left at 1:45 PM, back straight and eyes ringed with exhaustion, hoping my makeup was doing a convincing enough job.
At headquarters, the receptionist waved me through without stopping me.
Same badge. Same anthracite corridor.
Same overhead lighting that made you feel like an insect beneath a magnifying glass. This time, however, the assistant led me into a different room.
A large oval conference room made entirely of glass, suspended above Manhattan like a crystal bubble.
The central table could seat twenty people.
I was alone.
I sat near the exit—a reflex that had become automatic—and waited.
The view from this height was indecent.
A kaleidoscope of rooftops, antennas, and towers competing for the sky with effortless arrogance.
I wondered what the city looked like from up here at night, when the lights replaced the sun.
Probably like something you weren't supposed to stare at for too long.
Then suddenly the room seemed to sway.
I blinked.
The sensation vanished. Missing two nights of sleep was clearly not a sustainable career strategy.
The door opened.
Ashton Gray entered, placed a file on the table, and apologized for the wait with the brevity of a man who rarely apologized.
He sat across from me and opened the contract without preamble.
—We're not going to waste time. First of all, you should know that you won't be working for me.
I looked up.
He seemed to read the question on my face before I could ask it.
—Your actual employer was unfortunately too busy to conduct the interview personally. He had important business to attend to. I handled the interview in his place.
He slid the contract toward me.
—During his absence, he's asked me to train you.
—For how long?
—One week. The duration of his trip.
I nodded and began reading.
Slowly.
Line by line.
The contract was dense, precise, written with the care of someone who left nothing to chance.
Professional and personal secretary to Party A. Twenty-four-hour availability, six days a week. Assistance during meetings. Management of strategic correspondence.
Travel planning. Accompaniment on business trips.
Note to self: my future employer apparently didn't sleep much.
Contract duration: one year, renewable by mutual agreement. Early termination clause: a six-figure sum.
I won't specify the amount. Some numbers are simply too intimidating to look directly at when you have a fever.
In summary: Advantageous. Very advantageous.
The twenty-four-hour availability was restrictive, but it had the benefit of leaving no room for intrusive thoughts.
Given my current situation, that was worth its weight in gold. I took the pen he offered and signed without hesitation.
A faint smile touched his lips.
The smile of a man expecting either negotiation or flight and receiving neither.
—I'm pleased to do business with you, Miss Arzons.
He retrieved the contract and stood.
I followed him into the hallway.
Our footsteps echoed identically across the dark stone floor, same rhythm, same cadence. The sort of detail you notice after a sleepless night when your brain latches onto anything.
—I have a question.
He looked at me, waiting.
—My employer. Party A. Who is he?
Something crossed his face.
Not quite a smile.
More the expression of a man watching a story he already knows begin to unfold.
Then he returned to the present with the precision of someone who never remains distracted for long.
—The Chief Executive Officer. Mr. More.
I stopped for half a second.
I had applied to become a CEO's secretary.
I was about to become the personal secretary of the owner himself.
Ashton chuckled softly—discreetly, professionally, but undeniably—at the expression I hadn't managed to hide.
We had reached the elevators.
He pressed the button, hands in his pockets.
—I look forward to working with you, he said, taking his time as though each word had been weighed before being spoken. "Be on time tomorrow morning.
The doors opened.
I stepped inside.
—Good luck, Miss Arzons.
The doors began to close.Through the narrowing gap, I thought I saw his lips move.
Barely.
Almost nothing. Maybe I was imagining it.
You'll need it.
The doors closed.
I stared at my reflection in the polished metal of the elevator. A personal secretary. An invisible employer.
A contract signed without reading between the lines. The elevator descended in silence.
Had I just signed a contract with the devil?