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We have faith in you.
I hear it in my head, but it’s not Gran’s voice this time. It’s Mr. Preston’s. Then Charlotte’s. Then Juan Manuel’s.
I keep my hand steady under his, my gaze neutral. “You know,” I say, “I’m not allowed to enter the hotel, but that doesn’t meanyoucan’t enter. What if I quickly sneak into the hotel, grab the right room key, and give it to you? You can then use my trolley and clean up the room yourself! Wouldn’t that be something—you cleaning up your own mess?—I mean, Juan Manuel’s mess.”
His eyes are darting all over the place. The sheen on his forehead is condensing into droplets.
After a few moments, he says, “Okay. All right. You get me the suite key, I clean the room.”
“The suite keytout suite,” I say, but he fails to register my cleverness.
The waitress arrives at our table with the pepperoni pizza and the appetizer plate.
“Would you mind boxing that up, please?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “Was there something wrong with the bread and salad? You didn’t even touch them.”
“Oh no,” I say. “It’s all delightful. It’s just that we’re in a bit of a rush.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll box everything.” She gestures to a colleague, and the two of them take care of the food.
“He’ll have the bill, please,” I say, pointing to Rodney.
His mouth drops open, but he doesn’t say anything, not so much as a word.
Our waitress retrieves the bill from her apron and hands it to him. He pulls out a crisp, fresh $100 bill from his wallet, passes it to her, and says, “Keep the change.” He stands abruptly. “I better run, Molly. I should get back to the hotel and do this right away.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll take all this food home. Then I’ll text you as soon as I make it to the hotel. Oh, and Rodney?”
“What?” he asks.
“It really is a shame that you don’t like jigsaw puzzles.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, “I don’t think you quite know the pleasure one feels when suddenly, all the pieces come together.”
He looks at me, his lip curled. It’s so clear, the meaning of the look. I’m an idiot. A fool. And I’m too daft to even know it.
That’s the expression that’s smeared all over his vulgar, lying face.
I walk quickly all the way home, takeout bags in tow. I’m eager to report back to Mr. Preston, Charlotte, and especially Juan Manuel.
Once I’m in my building, I climb the stairs two by two. I’m rounding the corner to my hallway when I see Mr. Rosso’s door open a sliver. He peeks out, spots me, then slinks back inside, closing the door behind him.
I put down the takeout bags to turn the key in my lock, then I walk through the entrance. “I’m home!” I announce.
Mr. Preston springs to his feet. “Oh, dear girl, you’re back. Thank goodness.”
Charlotte and Juan Manuel are seated in the living room. They, too, jump to their feet the moment they see me.
“How did it go?” Charlotte asks.
Before I can answer Charlotte’s question, Juan Manuel is beside me. He’s grabbed the takeout bags and is now getting out the polishing cloth from the closet. The moment I remove my shoes, he takes them, cleans the bottoms, and puts them away.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“It’s okay. Do you need anything? Are you okay?” he asks.
