Mabel

The detective loomed over me, running a hand through his dark hair before crossing his arms over his chest, his muscles shifting underneath his button up. He narrowed his brown eyes, flecked with gold. The gaze would’ve been smoldering, were it not affixed to me in this particular situation.

“Are you making a confession, Ms. Hampden?”

***

I jolted at the ringing sound to my left. After a day as slow as this one had been, I’d almost forgotten the phone at the front desk could do that. Clearing my throat, I sat up straight and put the phone to my ear. “You’ve reached The Ivy. Mabel speaking, how may I help you?”

The coolly discreet voice that came out of me was almost unrecognizable, but it came too easily. I needed a job where I didn’t have to pretend to be as stuck up as I sounded just then. Any other job, really.

“Impressive,” snorted the woman on the other end. “You almost sound as uptight as him.”

I immediately relaxed, letting my shoulders slump back down. My friend Clara Chen’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and I matched it without skipping a beat. “Oh, Mrs. Clayton,” I said, my tone even more pretentious than before, “I’m so happy you called. I’d be happy to wait on you hand and foot. Lick your foot, perhaps? Whatever you might need. Anything for you.”

I’d been witness to our boss Maurice’s groveling after the rich residents too often to not have my impression down pat.

Clara laughed, and I dropped the act with a laugh that turned into a groan. “Really, though,” I said, “remind me again why I need this job.”

My friend made a humming sound like she was pretending to think. I could picture her tossing her sleek black hair over a shoulder. “Uh, I don’t know, Mabel. Money for rent so that I don’t have to find a new roommate. Money for food so that you won’t actually starve as an artist. Those kinds of things.”

“Right.” I sighed. “Reality.”

“Yep, reality,” Clara parroted. “So get your real ass and a case of water upstairs to the model penthouse so we can keep our crappy jobs.”

“On my way,” I told her before hanging up. Crap…I hated this version of reality.

Juggling the case of water, I rang the bell outside of the penthouse. Maurice didn’t like us to walk in, even to show an apartment. He preferred that we remember the fiscal divide between us, the workers, and the rich residents of our luxury building. To forget would mean he might have to treat us like human beings occasionally.

Maurice didn’t answer the door. Leaning forward as much as I could with the waters still balanced on my hip and one propped leg, I tried to listen. Nothing.

Maybe I’d missed him. That would be nice. I could deliver the waters without having to deal with my douchebag boss and get back to the quiet desk.

But, if I let myself in the apartment and he was there, he’d be up my ass with an attitude all day. And if I dropped the waters here and left them outside of the door, it would be the same thing. He’d likely act as if I soiled the Mona Lisa.

Sighing, I knocked on the door loud enough that he’d have to hear. Except, when my fist hit the door, it drifted open, apparently not closed all the way.

“Maurice! It’s Mabel!” I called. “I brought the waters.” I stepped farther inside and looked around. Still no sign of him. “I’ll just put them in the kitchen and head back out…”

I took a few more steps. “Hello? Maurice? I’m coming in, but I promise I won’t touch a thing…”

Still no answer, which meant that Maurice was either going deaf or he really wasn’t there and someone was about to be fired for leaving this door open. I stopped for a beat to look around. Everything was shiny and new, smooth marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances lit by glittering chandeliers over the kitchen island. And to top it off, the view was insane. I stepped closer to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window across the room. The whole of New York City stretched beneath us, the skyline basically preening under the weight of a cloudless sky.

A wave of sick, green envy struck me. The kind of people who could afford this penthouse really would be living—and seeing—a completely different world than people like me. I bet they didn’t even take the subway.

Turning back and shaking off the jealousy at something I’d never have, I turned to the kitchen. A high-pitched, panicked shriek filled the apartment, and it took me a full second to realize that it was me standing there screaming. The case of water crashed from my hands to the floor as I stared at Maurice.

He was just lying there, a stricken look on his lifeless face and his body stiff in a pool of blood.

He was dead.