Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“You ordered roast for dinner?” I ask, my voice rife with suspicion.
That would cost a fortune, and Mrs. Lichard is on a pension. She can’t afford takeout.
She pffts me like my shock isn’t warranted. “No.” A touch of heat graces her rheumy cheeks when she admits, “I sent the ingredients to Mr. Gordon from 4A and ordered him to make us a roast for dinner.”
The redness of my cheeks is more from memories of how Mr. Gordon cornered Mrs. Lichard under mistletoe last Christmas than the unbelievable heat in the servants’ elevator I’ve just entered.
It’s super stuffy tonight, and not all the heat is from remembrance of the last time I rode this elevator. Most of it is worry.
I haven’t stopped replaying my conversation with Riley through my head on repeat since I left home. That was almost two hours ago since I had to take four different bus lines to get here.
The bus schedules were designed for nine-to-five workers, which is ridiculous considering people who work those hours generally have their own mode of transport. Adding that to the fact Darius wasn’t stationed where he usually is when I leave my building has catapulted my panic.
Something is wrong—very wrong.
I tune back into my conversation when Mrs. Lichard says, “You shouldn’t have brought so much, Mara. I won’t need to go shopping for a year.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. Barring the bulk rice, flour, and pasta we divide from the food wholesaler one block from Wilfred’s boutique, I haven’t been grocery shopping yet. The list is on my refrigerator, waiting for the day Chef stops overcooking.
When I say that to Mrs. Lichard, shock leaps onto her face. “But… it’s all here… Months of supplies were delivered an hour ago.”
She spins her phone again, and I gasp. Her little kitchen is overrun with pantry food, condiments, and enough fresh produce to last her until next Christmas.
I’ve never seen so much food.
I stagger back when she discloses, “Your kitchen is just as brimming. Tillie thought it was Christmas when she helped me take it inside.” Since my shock can’t be dismissed, she asks, “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
I swallow the brick in my throat before flinging my eyes to the apartment I’m approaching. “I think I know who it might have been.”
I would sound more confident if I weren’t so lost.
Why would Ark organize groceries when I’m reasonably sure he ordered Chef to overcook on the days I work?
My pride wouldn’t allow me to ask Chef directly if my theory was true, but Chef is blunter than his favorite knives. When I dropped hints about my assumption, he told me it is impolite to question someone’s generosity, and that doing so was an insult to both the gift giver and the cook.
“Oh…” Mrs. Lichard’s reply is way too lusty for my liking. It makes my gills a little green. “Tillie is right. Ark is perfect for you. Perhaps she is right about Mr. Gordan as well.” Stealing my chance to reply, she shouts at Mr. Gordan that she’s coming before she tells me to message her before I leave so she can make sure I’ve gotten home safely.
I promise her I will before ending our call and storing my phone.
After a quick breather, I knock on the service entrance of Ark’s living room and impatiently wait.
Mercifully, I’m not left hanging for long.
Regretfully, the person who answers isn’t who I am expecting.
“Ms. Malenkov,” Fyodor greets, his gaze stony and cold. “I was just about to contact you.” He waves his hand across his body, inviting me in. “Please, come in.”
My legs are already wobbly, but their shakes worsen when my entrance into the living room announces there are more bodies than exits.
The person I’m seeking, though, is nowhere to be seen.
After smiling a greeting to Mrs. Whitten and Val, and struggling to hold back the snarl I’d give anything to issue Ark’s mother, I sit on the chair Fyodor gestures at. I trust Val enough to know she’d never place me in danger. I can’t issue the same guarantee for the other three.
I’m on the verge of being sick, but since I am desperate for answers, I fight to speak through the clump of vomit in my throat. “Is Ark okay?”
“Yes,” Fyodor answers, immediately halving my angst. “He’s fine.”
“You, however,” Mrs. Whitten joins in, “are balancing on a very thin wire, young lady.”
Her anger shocks me… until I recall how stringent she is about the rules.
I once cherished her nonfraternization policy.
Now, I loathe it.
“I had no s-sexual contact with Ark—”
“You will address him as Mr. Orlov or not at all.”
I grit my teeth before shifting my eyes to the person snapping at me like my cat shit in her prize-winning garden.
Even if Ark’s confessions didn’t disclose her as a monster, I’d still declare with utmost certainty that Mrs. Orlov is a bully. She looks down at those she believes are below her and will stomp on people beside her for an inch more leverage.