Page 4 of Don't Tell

“Let me correct you, Jenkins.” He points at the screen. “You scratched Mr. Nightingale’s car. You’re assigned to his unit, so you’re aware of the type of man he is."

I’m not aware of much. He barely leaves things around. All I know is that he’s crazy rich.

“And weren’t you supposed to go there today? His room is overdue for housekeeping.” I don’t answer. Roger leans back in his chair and laces his fingers behind his head. "You are going up. You are going to knock. You are going to apologize personally, in person, face-to-face, and you are going to hope to God that he is the forgiving kind."

My stomach drops. "Roger…"

"Or you can clean out your locker."

Roger’s face is grim, but I can sense the smile coming on. He’s been wanting to get rid of me, and this is the perfectopportunity for him to do so. Even if he does get rid of me, I’ll be damned if I let him do it with a smile on his face.

I don't answer. I turn around. I push the door open.

Behind me, he says, "Try smiling."

The penthouse elevator requires a key card. Mine works because the penthouse is one of my assigned units and has been since the man checked in. I have cleaned it eight times in three weeks. I have never met him. The suite is always empty when I arrive.

The card reader beeps green. The doors open onto a private vestibule with white walls and a single chair nobody has ever sat in.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Nothing.

I shrug and use the master key.

The suite is dim. The curtains are drawn at 11:00 a.m. The air is too still — no shower running, no breath of an air conditioner working against an open window. I move past the kitchen and into the office space. The wall safe is set behind the desk. There is supposed to be a small green light in its upper corner.

The light is off. The door is ajar half an inch.

I walk to it. I don't touch it. I lean down, and I look in.

It is empty.

I should call security, but I don’t. My hand is already moving toward the bedroom door before I have decided. The edges of my vision blur for a second. I shake my head and push the door open.

The man on the bed is naked.

I rub my eyes and look again. He’s definitely as naked as the day he was born.

His left wrist is cuffed to the iron frame above his head. His right hand is free. There is no sheet. Whoever arranged him did not arrange him for modesty.

Our eyes meet. His eyes are gray, like a stormy night. They don't slide off me the way the woman in eight-fourteen's eyes did. They land. They stay.

I quickly look away. This is too awkward, not to mention awfully weird. I glance around the room and instantly see the key on the nightstand. Far enough that he can’t reach it, but close enough for him to stare at it.

Huh…that’s definitely bizarre. Maybe this is some sort of fetish or foreplay gone wrong. Maybe his girlfriend or wife found out he was cheating and decided to seek revenge this way. That is the most plausible explanation.

I look at his hand first. It is not shaking. The knuckles are bruised pink from working against the cuff.

I look at his face again. I don't look at the rest of him. He’s smiling at me. His long, dark hair spreads across his face, revealing a strong, angular jaw. I look away. Still weird.

I walk to the nightstand. That’s when I notice a small safe to the side, open and empty. All my theories might have been wrong. Whatever this is…I want no part in it.

I pick up the key. I lean across him without touching him, and I unlock the cuff. The metal opens with a soft click. He pulls his arm down slowly and rubs it. I step back. I set the key on the duvet within reach of his right hand.