Not footsteps—something being dragged. Then a soft, wet click, like a lock turning in a mouth.

Yesterday, I found a single pearl earring in the vacuum bag. Not Mrs. Ashworth’s style. Too small, too real.

My employer, Mrs. Ashworth, had hired me to clean her penthouse, not to ask questions. “The south bedroom is off-limits,” she’d said, her diamond rings tapping the marble counter. “My husband works from home. He requires absolute silence.”

I back away, heart slamming. The ice tray in the freezer has been full for three days. I know because I checked. Inside each cube: a tiny folded key, frozen solid.