Tonya had moved on to the rest of her responsibilities. She dipped the mop into the soapy water in the yellow bucket at her side and then slapped it onto the floor. Sliding the cloth ribbons back and forth across the gray tile felt good, satisfying in a way that standing outside, desperately trying to attract patrons, hadn’t been. The latter role had made her permanently anxious. She remembered hours of shivering, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she’d felt and hoping that her hourly wage would reflect a generous tip or two, deep down knowing that it wouldn’t.

There weren’t any unknowns in her new role. No need to fake a smile behind a mask and attempt to exude sex appeal through a boxy uniform shirt. She would clean for several hours a day, six days a week, during and after the dinner shift. In exchange, she’d receive two furnished, sunlit bedrooms and a private bathroom in a beautiful home located mere blocks from her daughter’s school.

It was a fair deal, Tonya thought. She continued to glide the mop over the floor, feeling pride in the wet gleam on the tiles, the emerging whiteness of the grout, and the disappearance of the black rubber marks left by skidding work shoes. In some ways, the job reminded her of farm work. Repetitive and tiring, but also visible. She’d have something to show at the end of the day. Or night, as it were.

Because her new gig required cleaning after dinner service ended, Tonya’s shift had swung to an after-hours schedule. She would work until ten thirty most nights, returning to Brooklyn long after Layla had gone to bed. Tonya told herself it was temporary and didn’t matter at the moment. Her daughter was in a locked house with an adult in a safe neighborhood. Or, at least, what had passed for one until Nate’s murder.

Tonya shuddered, perhaps at the thought of Nate, dead on the floor of his multi-million-dollar mansion or, more likely, the unshakable eeriness of her own surroundings. As soon as the clock had struck ten, Banque Gauche’s kitchen staff had all rushed off to spouses and children or late-night drinks, leaving Tonya to listen to the fridge’s hum and the slap of sopping cloth against stone.

Tonya finished up around the baseboards and then twisted the mop into the wringer at the top of the bucket, squeezing out the dirty water into a separate compartment. She then pushed the contraption into an out-of-the-way corner and grabbed the chemical spray, squeegee, paper towels, and a shammy. Wiping down the kitchen counters and fridge were the sole tasks left on her to-do list.