Chapter 4 - The Laundry Room Whisper
I pushed my cart toward the laundry room because it was the only place on that floor where the fan ran loud enough to cover me thinking.
The wheels squeaked on the tile. I had put my shoes back on in the hallway, but I could feel one sock damp against my shoe. My face was still hot. I kept my head down and counted the doors as I passed them so I wouldn't have to look at the camera domes in the ceiling.
The laundry room was bright in a way the bedroom hadn't been. White light, warm air, the smell of bleach and dryer sheets. Marta was there folding bath towels, her sleeves pushed up. She looked up when I came in, then looked down at my cart, then at me again.
"Where have you been?" she said.
I tried to keep moving. "Upstairs. Bathrooms took longer."
She set a towel down. "You're flushed." She nodded toward the lower shelf of my cart. "And you're barefoot?"
I glanced down. I had shoved my shoes on so fast in the hall that the backs were folded under. My gray uniform shirt had pulled loose on one side. On the shelf beside my spray bottles sat the short clear glass, empty now, with a little water still beading inside. A wet ring had spread on the folded rag under it where it had tipped during the push.
Marta saw it too. She stared at the glass for a second longer than she should have.
"That's not from the cart," she said quietly. "We don't put drinking glasses on the carts."
My throat tightened. The fan rattled above us. A dryer buzzed and kept going.
"I was cleaning," I said. "Room twelve. Someone left a glass."
It came out too fast. One short sentence, and even I heard how thin it sounded.
Marta didn't answer right away. She picked up another towel, folded it in half, smoothed the edge with her palm. Her eyes flicked to my feet again, to the damp sock showing where my shoe had slipped, to my hair coming loose at the back.
"You were gone almost an hour," she said. Her voice was lower now. "I covered your hall."
I gripped the cart handle. "Thank you."
She stepped closer and lowered her voice until I could barely hear it over the machines. "Listen to me. You don't talk about what you see in the bedrooms here. Especially his. Mr. Russo fires staff for bedroom gossip. I watched it happen to Elena in May. One story, and she was gone that night."
I nodded. My hands were shaking, so I tucked them against the handle.
"I wasn't —" I started, then stopped. "I got dizzy. I needed water."
Marta studied my face. She didn't ask what I meant by that. She just pressed her lips together like she was deciding how much to believe.
"Did he say something to you?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I just need to change my socks."
She held my look for a moment, then turned back to her towels. "Go on, then. Bathroom's empty."
I left the cart where it was and carried the glass with me into the small staff bathroom off the laundry room. The door locked with a little twist button. Inside it smelled like damp mop and lemon cleaner. I set the glass on the sink and stared at it.
I rinsed it fast, dried the outside with toilet paper so it wouldn't leave another ring, and wrapped it in a clean dry rag from my pocket. I didn't want to throw it away in the laundry trash where Marta would see it. I slid the bundle deep into the front pocket of my cart bag, under the extra trash liners, where it wouldn't clink.
Then I sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled off my shoes. My socks were both damp with sweat. I peeled them off, rolled them into a ball, and put on the dry pair I kept in my back pocket for long shifts. My feet were cold and pale. I laced my shoes properly this time, double knots, backs up.
When I looked in the mirror above the sink, my cheeks were still pink and my eyes were glassy. I ran cold water over my wrists the way my mom taught me when I felt sick, then patted my face with a damp paper towel until some of the color faded.
When I came out, Marta had finished the stack of towels. My cart was still where I'd left it, the wet rag folded over to hide the ring.
She handed me a folded washcloth. "For your face," she said. "You look like you've been crying."
"I haven't," I said, and took it.
She gave a small nod that wasn't quite belief. She didn't ask about the glass again. She just moved my cart a few inches to straighten it for me and said, "I didn't see you. If Alvarez asks, you were helping me fold."
I understood what she was offering. Temporary cover, nothing more.
"Thank you," I said again.
May you like
She picked up her basket. At the door she paused. "Chloe. Whatever it was — don't carry it around. Change your shirt before inspection."
Then she was gone, and the laundry room was just machines and heat, and the glass was heavy in my cart bag every time I moved.
