“Milky and sweet, just the way you like it.” Manfred glanced at Wendy’s gigantic computer screen, which was split between the dead-woman story on The Brookliner, complete with photos, and her perfume story, which was one long, boring paragraph. “Oh my God, have you been reading about the torso?”

Wendy nodded, embarrassed to be caught not working.

“It’s so sick.”

“There were a lot of pieces,” Wendy agreed and then frowned, remembering that she was supposed to be Manfred’s superior.

“Creepy boyfriend. He probably thought he was being all sneaky and careful. The dum-dum.”

Wendy was still not used to working in an office. There seemed to be a strange combination of the familiar and the formal. Was she supposed to delegate to Manfred or invite them to lunch? She turned back to her computer screen, reached for her mouse, and closed The Brookliner window. Sensing that Manfred was about to leave, she whipped around again.

“It’s a good story. I still want to know if they find the head.”

Manfred’s glossy black eyebrows shot up.

“We live quite close to where they found it,” Wendy continued. “How could she be living with that man for so many years and not know what he was capable of?”

“You don’t seem like the Red Hook type,” Manfred observed. “Not that I’d know. I go to work and then I go back to Williamsburg. I love Williamsburg.”

All of the assistants lived in Williamsburg. They were always meeting up for tacos and tequila or going to spinning classes or buying aromatherapy diffusers for their desks at the Williamsburg outpost of Muji.

“I live in Cobble Hill,” Wendy clarified. “It’s very safe.”

“I hope so.” Manfred bit their top lip. “Everyone said you were scary. You’re not scary.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“Sometimes I give people the wrong impression,” Wendy admitted. When anxious she resorted to snobbery, just like at Shy’s school. But she couldn’t possibly be snobbish to Manfred. Manfred was perfection.

“There’s a rumor that you took a pair of size eight Gucci sneakers from the fashion closet,” Manfred went on teasingly. “Only the assistants get to do that, and only if it’s not an in-demand size, like a five or an eleven.”

Wendy was horrified. The sneakers had been there for almost a month, collecting dust, before she rescued them and gave them to Shy.

“I didn’t know.”

Manfred laughed. “You’re supposed to be able to buy them on your salary, but don’t worry about it.”

Wendy had the feeling Manfred wanted to say something nice about her outfit now, and was struggling. When she’d started at Fleurt she’d decided on a chic and easy uniform—black trousers and a black top. Today’s ensemble was particularly unremarkable.

“You have the most beautiful hands,” Manfred said finally.