Chapter 12 - Who Ordered The Gold Frame Service
I hadn't moved from the side of the bed in almost an hour, but my knees had started to ache from standing so still. The cut in the headboard hung open like a split lip. The black boxes inside it blinked slow and steady, red, red, red. Nobody had touched them since Mr. Moradi said not to. The gun was down at Guard One's side now, but I could still feel where it had been pointed.
Guard One stood by the gold mirror with the little paper tag in his hand. He'd pulled it from the seam that morning during the search, and he'd been turning it over and over.
"It's just initials," he said. "R.K. No company. No date."
Mr. Moradi sat on the edge of the bed in his black robe. He hadn't slept. The circles under his eyes looked darker under the lamp light. "I didn't order any service," he said. His voice was flat. "I don't let anyone touch that bed."
Guard Two was by the sconces near the door. He hadn't spoken in a while. He kept shifting his weight, looking at the marble and then away.
I watched Guard One hold the tag up to the bedside lamp. The paper was thin and yellowed at the edge. The handwriting was rushed.
"You log every visitor, right?" I said. I didn't mean it as an accusation. My throat was dry. "There has to be a record of who came in that day."
Guard One glanced at me, then nodded once. He pulled his phone out and scrolled. His thumb stopped. His jaw tightened.
"Three weeks ago Tuesday," he said. "Daytime window. Eleven to two. You were off, Elena. Housekeeper rotation. It was just us."
Mr. Moradi lifted his head. "Who?"
Guard One didn't answer right away. He looked at Guard Two.
I felt the air change before anyone spoke. Guard Two's hands curled at his sides. He stared at the floor like he could find something there to stand on.
"Say it," Mr. Moradi said.
Guard Two cleared his throat. "A repairman. For the frame. He said the gold trim was loose on the left side. Said he'd been sent by the house manager."
My stomach dropped. I remembered that morning. I hadn't been scheduled, but I'd come in early to swap linens in the guest suite. I'd seen the back door propped with a rubber wedge and a white van in the service drive that I didn't recognize. No logo. Just a plain van with a dent in the rear panel.
"I smelled it," I said before I could stop myself. All three men looked at me. "That morning. When I walked past this room. Fresh glue and new fabric. Like upholstery. I thought housekeeping had done a deep clean."
Mr. Moradi's eyes cut to me. "Why didn't you say anything?"
I swallowed. The pearl in my ear felt too heavy. "Because it wasn't my room that week. And the bed was made. I figured someone else had approved it."
Guard One stepped forward. "Did you approve it?" he asked Guard Two.
Guard Two shook his head fast, then stopped. His shoulders sank. "He had a work order. Paper. It looked real. He said it would take forty minutes. I stayed in the hall. I didn't watch him the whole time."
"You let him in without asking me," Mr. Moradi said. It wasn't loud. That made it worse.
"I thought—" Guard Two started. He rubbed the back of his neck. His suit jacket pulled tight. "You hadn't been sleeping. You were pacing all night. I thought if the frame was fixed, if the bed felt right—"
"You thought," Mr. Moradi repeated. He stood up from the bed, just a few inches, then sat back down hard. His tattooed hand gripped the mattress. "You let a stranger open my bed."
Silence filled the room. The bedside lamp buzzed faintly. The red lights kept blinking inside the headboard. I could hear my own breathing.
Guard One folded the tag and put it in his breast pocket. "Daytime window matches. Eleven to two. That's when the tag would've been left. That's our entry."
I looked at the headboard again, at the stiffness in the tufting on the left side that I'd noticed days later when I ran my hand across it to smooth the pillows. It hadn't given like the rest. I'd told myself it was new padding.
"That's when it started, isn't it?" I said quietly to Mr. Moradi. "The not sleeping."
He didn't look at me at first. He stared at the gold frame, at the ornate curl where the fabric met the metal. His beard moved when he swallowed.
"I told myself it was in my head," he said. "After that day, I couldn't lay back. Every time I got close, my chest got tight. I thought I was losing it." He let out a short breath. "I started sleeping in the chair. Then not at all."
Guard Two took a step toward him. "Sir, I didn't know what he put in there. I swear I didn't—"
Guard One cut him off with a look. "You let him in. That's enough for now."
I felt sick for both of them. For Mr. Moradi, who'd been doubting his own mind for three weeks. For Guard Two, whose face had gone pale. He'd made a mistake trying to help, and now it sat open in front of us, blinking red.
May you like
Mr. Moradi pressed his palms into his eyes for a second, then dropped them. "R.K.," he said. "Find him. But nobody touches what's in there until I say."
He looked up at me then, tired and focused at once. I nodded back. The dread had a date now. It had a van and a smell and a paper tag. But we still didn't have a name behind the initials, and the boxes were still in his bed, still lit.
