Chapter 1 - The Bed He Would Not Touch
The bed was made too perfect to have been slept in. That was what stopped me with my cart halfway across the marble. The cream comforter lay flat without a single crease, the pillows plumped in a straight line against the tufted headboard with its gold frame catching the sconce light. No dip in the mattress. No shed heat. Even the throw at the foot was squared like it hadn't been touched in days, and the air around it smelled only of polish and cold lamp dust.
Mr. Moradi sat on the edge of it, not in it. He wore the black robe with white piping and his hands hung between his knees, tattoo ink dark up his neck. His hair was slicked back, his beard untrimmed, and the circles under his eyes were so deep they looked bruised. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the headboard the way a man looks at something he expects to move, while behind him near the gold mirror the two suited men stood shoulder to shoulder, watchful.
My name is Elena. I was the one who cleaned that bedroom for eleven months.
It was just past nine that night when I came in for the turndown. The bedside lamp was on. I set the fresh water on the table and my hand brushed the headboard as I reached past it. The fabric gave wrong under my palm. One tuft pulled tighter than the others, the button sunk hard, and the padding behind it felt stiff, packed. I pressed again. Something solid shifted inside.
"You haven't been sleeping in this bed."
His head came up fast. The tiredness didn't leave his face, the suspicion just cut through it.
"What are you doing?"
I didn't lift my hand. I could feel his eyes on my fingers against the cream fabric. One of the suited men shifted his weight. I heard a shoe creak on marble.
"Finding out why you look at your bed like it murdered someone."
Mr. Moradi stood halfway, then caught himself and stayed seated, elbows on his knees. His tattooed hand flexed once. The lamp threw warm light across his cheek and left the other side in shadow.
"Stop. You have 30 seconds."
Behind him, Guard One drew. I didn't see where the gun had been hidden, only that it was suddenly there, black and level and pointed forward in his two-handed grip. Guard Two didn't move, but his eyes cut to Mr. Moradi, waiting.
I pulled the small silver cutting tool from my apron pocket. It was the one I used for loose threads and opened linen tape, no longer than my finger. My pearl earring caught the sconce light when I turned my head. I slid the tip under the seam beside the tight button where the fabric puckered.
"If I'm wrong, fire me."
The first cut was short. Thread popped. Yellow padding bulged out around the blade, too bright against the cream. I made a second cut, longer, and pulled the edges apart with my thumb. Inside the dark slit, packed tight against the padding, sat black boxes wired together with red and blue and yellow wires. Two small red lights blinked, steady and alive.
The room went dead quiet except for the lamp hum.
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"Mr. Moradi, someone put this inside your bed."
I looked up. Guard One had stepped in closer, the handgun aimed straight at me past the edge of the bed. Mr. Moradi stared, wide-eyed, his mouth half open, his whole body locked as if the red lights had him pinned to the mattress.
