The morning light filtered through gauze curtains like honey—soft and golden and deliberately expensive. The kind of curtains that cost more than most people's monthly rent because they were hand-woven in some European country and designed specifically to make morning light look gentle instead of harsh.
Maria Lopez moved through Norah's bathroom with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been doing this exact routine for years. Eleven years, to be precise. She'd started working for the Hanrot family when Norah was twelve years old, back when the girl was still small enough to hug her goodnight, back when she actually smiled, back when she didn't look at everyone like they were enemies waiting to betray her.
Maria tried not to think about how much the girl had changed. Tried not to think about what might have caused it. Tried to do her job and keep her observations to herself because that's what you did when you worked for people like the Hanrots—you saw everything and said nothing.
The water ran hot from the oversized tub's faucet, steam curling up toward the vaulted ceiling that was probably fifteen feet high. Unnecessary. Ostentatious. Beautiful in that way that money made beautiful—pristine and perfect and utterly impractical for anyone who actually had to clean it.
Maria added the bath oils first. She always added them first, had learned through trial and error years ago that adding them after the water was drawn meant they didn't disperse properly. Lavender and bergamot from some boutique in Paris that probably cost two hundred dollars for a tiny bottle. Miss Norah's favorites. Or at least they used to be. Maria wasn't sure the girl had favorites anymore. Wasn't sure she let herself enjoy anything.
Then the rose petals. White and pink, scattered across the surface of the water where they floated like small boats. Like something from a romance novel. Like something that suggested the person taking this bath was pampered and cared for instead of lonely and angry and trapped.
Maria tested the temperature with her elbow—the way her own mother had taught her to test bath water for babies, all those years ago in Mexico before Maria had crossed the border and started cleaning houses for rich people who'd never had to test their own bath water. Too hot. She adjusted it slightly cooler. Miss Norah liked it warm but not scalding. Had sensitive skin, though she'd never admit to having anything as vulnerable as sensitivity.
The towels went on the heated rack. Turkish cotton. Monogrammed with "NH" in elegant script. Everything in this house was monogrammed—the towels, the sheets, the bathrobes, probably the toilet paper if Mr. Hanrot could figure out how to do it tastefully. Everything marked with ownership. Everything claiming territory.
Shampoos, conditioners, body scrubs—all arranged in perfect order on the marble shelf that probably cost more than Maria's car. All expensive. All from brands that didn't advertise because if you had to ask where to buy them, you couldn't afford them. A clean robe hung on the brushed nickel hook. Slippers positioned just so on the heated tile floor, exactly twelve inches from the tub.
Maria had learned to measure. Mr. Hanrot noticed if things were out of place.
She took a breath. Smoothed her apron even though it wasn't wrinkled. Checked her reflection in the massive mirror to make sure her hair was neat, her uniform clean, her expression properly neutral. Then she walked back into the bedroom.
The curtains were still drawn, heavy fabric blocking out most of the morning. In the massive four-poster bed—mahogany, probably imported, definitely worth more than Maria made in a year—Norah was a motionless lump buried under silk sheets that probably had a thread count higher than Maria's credit score.
"Miss Norah?" Maria kept her voice gentle. Soft. The way you'd talk to a wounded animal. "Your bath is ready."
Nothing. No movement. No acknowledgment. Just the steady rise and fall of breathing under expensive fabric.
"Miss Norah, it's seven-thirty." Maria moved a little closer, careful not to get too near the bed. You learned to maintain distance with Miss Norah. She had boundaries like barbed wire. "Your father said you have classes at nine. He wanted me to make sure you were up and—"
"I don't care what my father said." The voice was muffled, venomous, sharp enough to cut even through layers of silk. The lump shifted violently, and Norah's head emerged from the covers like a predator surfacing. Dark hair wild. Eyes barely open but already furious. Face creased from the pillow but still beautiful in that way that made Maria understand why men did stupid things. "Why can't I have a single moment of peace in this godforsaken house?"
Maria took a step back. Automatic. Defensive. She'd learned that reaction too. "I'm sorry, Miss. I was only—"
"Get out."
The words were flat. Final. Not shouted—Miss Norah rarely shouted—but somehow worse for being quiet.
"Yes, Miss. Of course." Maria practically fled, her professional dignity crumbling as she pulled the door shut behind her with hands that shook more than they should. She'd been doing this for eleven years. She should be used to Miss Norah's moods by now. She wasn't.
In the hallway, she paused. Took a breath. Smoothed her apron again. Reminded herself that the girl was twenty-three, not twelve. That whatever had happened to turn the smiling child into this angry woman was not Maria's business. That she had three other rooms to clean before lunch and she couldn't afford to stand here feeling sad about the ways rich people's children broke.
She moved on.
Behind the closed door, Norah lay there for another thirty seconds, glaring at the ceiling—twelve feet up, painted pale blue like a sky, perfect and pristine and suffocating—before throwing the covers off with a frustrated growl that no one could hear.
Peace. What a joke. There was no peace in this house. There never had been. Just money and expectations and the constant awareness that she was being watched, monitored, controlled. Even when she was alone, she wasn't alone. There were cameras in the hallways. Staff everywhere. Her father's presence like a weight pressing down on everything.
And now Coy.
She sat up too fast, head spinning slightly. She'd barely slept. Maybe two hours. Maybe three. Every time she'd started to drift off, she'd see Gary's face. Hear him screaming. Feel the weight of what she'd cost him without even being there, without even pulling the trigger herself.
She padded barefoot across the cold marble floor—expensive Italian marble, imported specifically for this room, probably quarried by hand in some mountain somewhere—toward the bathroom. The floor was always cold. She'd asked her father once, years ago, if they could put in heating. He'd said cold floors were good for circulation. Built character.
Everything in this house was supposed to build character.