Chapter 11 - The Bedroom Looked Clean Until I Checked the Light
I didn't touch the headboard again after he told me to leave it alone. I just stood beside it with my hands folded over my apron and waited for Mr. Moradi to tell me what he wanted next.
The cut I'd made hung open about three inches. The yellow padding bulged out around it, and inside I could see the edge of one black box and a thin red light blinking slow. I kept my eyes off it on purpose. Looking at it made my hands want to fix it, and fixing it wasn't allowed.
"You said the rest of the room is clean," the guard by the door said. He was Guard One, the one who'd kept his gun out the longest. Now it was down at his side, but he hadn't put it away. "Prove it."
I nodded. That was my job now. Witness cleaner, he'd called me. Stay in the room, don't touch what mattered, clean what didn't.
Mr. Moradi sat on the edge of the bed, far forward from the pillows, his elbows on his knees. His robe had slipped open at the throat and I could see the dark ink climbing his neck. His eyes were half closed. He hadn't slept, that much was clear from the circles under them, and the night was catching up to him all at once.
"Sir," I said quietly. "If I can walk it, slow, just looking. No moving anything."
He lifted two fingers off his knee. Go ahead.
I started at the left wall. The marble ran floor to ceiling in big gray-veined slabs, cold even in the warm light. I walked close enough that my breath fogged a small spot, checking each seam. Housekeeping taught you to look for dust in seams. I was looking for anything new. A fresh drill mark. A plug. A wire tucked where it shouldn't be.
"Marble's intact," I said after a minute. My voice sounded too loud. "No marks. No dust lines disturbed except my daily wipe this morning."
The guard followed me with his eyes, not his feet. "Keep going."
The big gold mirror took up most of the back wall between the sconces. I stopped in front of it and made myself look past my own reflection. My bun had loosened. My pearl earring caught the light. Behind me I could see Mr. Moradi hunched on the bed and the guard near the fireplace, both watching me.
I checked the frame first, running my eyes along the gilt edge left to right, top to bottom. No scratches. No fresh gold paint to cover a nick. Then the glass itself. I leaned in and looked at an angle for any pinhole or dark spot that hadn't been there during my morning polish.
I lifted my hand but didn't touch it. "May I?" I asked Mr. Moradi in the mirror.
He blinked at me. "Just look."
"Glass is clean," I said. "No holes. No fog around the edges. The backing's tight." I stepped back. My reflection stepped back with me, apron and all. For a second I saw how pale I was.
The sconces were next. Two of them, one on each side of the mirror, warm bulbs behind frosted shades. The light made the room feel smaller than it was. I stood under the left one and tilted my head up.
"Dust on top, normal from today," I said. "Shade's seated right. No extra wire down the stem." I moved to the right one and did the same. The bulb hummed faint, the way those bulbs did. Nothing blinked. Nothing glowed red. "Same here. They're just lights."
The bedside lamp was last. It sat on the table where I'd stood at the start of all this, its base heavy brass, its shade cream and straight. I bent without touching and looked at the cord where it ran behind the table to the outlet.
"Cord's in the clip where I put it yesterday," I said. "Shade's not tilted. Bulb's steady. No boxes, no extra wiring."
I stepped back to the middle of the rug and turned in a slow circle. Bed, tables, lamp, mirror, sconces, marble. Everything I'd dusted a hundred times looked back at me exactly the way I remembered it.
"Nothing else cut," I said. "Nothing else opened. If someone was in here, they only worked on the headboard."
Mr. Moradi let out a breath through his nose. He pushed himself back a few inches on the mattress, then seemed to think better of getting near the pillows. He stopped at the very edge, his hands braced on his thighs, his shoulders curving forward. Exhaustion hit him in a wave I could see. His head dipped, then jerked back up.
"You need to lie down, sir," I said before I could stop myself. "Not there. Away from—" I glanced at the headboard. "I can make the guest—"
"No," he said. The word was flat, final. He stayed where he was, perched on the edge, as far from that blinking red light as the bed would let him get.
The guard moved for the first time. He came to the headboard, bent close but didn't touch the fabric, and studied the slit I'd made. The yellow edge. The frayed threads. My small silver tool was still on the bedside table where I'd set it down.
He pulled out his phone and took two photos, close, no flash. "For the record," he said, looking at Mr. Moradi. "Only tool marks are hers. One cut, front center left. Nothing else on the frame pried or lifted."
My stomach tightened hearing it said out loud. Only tool marks are hers. It was true, but it sounded like an accusation.
May you like
Mr. Moradi nodded slowly, eyes on the floor. "Good."
I folded my hands tighter. The room was quiet except for the lamp hum and his breathing, slow and uneven. The bedroom was intact everywhere except the one place he slept against. I didn't feel relieved. I felt the walls close in a little tighter around that fact.
