Chapter 2
Judging by the ill-fitting gray uniform, she was an agency hire. Zo watched her for a moment. He did not know her name. He did not make a habit of fraternizing with peripheral staff. But something about the way she moved caught his attention. She did not have the relaxed, comfortable demeanor of his other employees. Her movements were sharp and economical, completely devoid of wasted energy. She scrubbed the wood as though her life depended on removing every single speck of dust. Zo glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of his study. 6:55 p.m.
5 minutes later, a muted chime echoed through the massive house. The dinner bell. The sound of heavy footsteps and low laughter drifted upward from the lower levels as guards rotated off shift and headed toward the kitchen. The smell of garlic, roasting meat, and butter began to travel through the ventilation system. The maid stopped scrubbing. She did not look toward the stairs leading to the dining hall. Instead, she methodically rinsed her rag, wrung it out with red, raw hands, and placed it inside her bucket. She stood, her joints popping audibly in the quiet hallway. She was small and thin, her dark hair pulled into a severe, utilitarian bun.
She picked up her bucket and walked in the opposite direction, toward the service elevator leading to the mudroom and staff exit. Zo frowned. He took a sip of scotch, feeling the amber liquid burn a pleasant trail down his throat, and turned his attention to the security feed on his secondary monitor. Camera 4. The mudroom. There she was. She punched her time card, opened her locker, and pulled out a thin, threadbare coat that offered almost no protection against a Chicago winter. Then she took a faded olive-green canvas tote bag, pushed open the heavy steel security door, and walked out into the freezing rain. She had skipped dinner. At first, Zo dismissed it. Maybe she had an appointment. Maybe she felt sick. But in his line of work, assumptions got people killed.
