The Maid's Diary(36)
I load the machine, set it in motion, then hurry into the kitchen. The Rittenbergs have left another eggy mess. The fatty smell of bacon hangs in the air. It’s nauseating—I’ve been a vegan for over ten years now. I rinse dishes and pack the dishwasher, studiously avoiding the powerful paintings of BergBomber on the living room wall. I feel him, though. Like a presence. As if taunting me to look. Look, Kit! Look at me, the golden ski god. Did you not have a poster of me inside your locker, fat little Katarina Poop-ovich?
My skin prickles with heat as I grab the big carving knife on the counter and begin to rinse it aggressively. I focus on the blade. The sharp, shining blade. I imagine Jon’s or Daisy’s hand holding this hilt. Cutting, carving up something. I can’t not look any longer, and I glance up.
I stare at the paintings next to the fireplace. I feel my fist tense around the hilt of the knife. I feel myself slashing those paintings. I gasp as I realize I’ve cut myself. Shit.
I hurry to the bathroom, find a Band-Aid, and I tape up the cut. I stare at my blood—pink in the basin as I rinse it away. I get darker and darker thoughts. I realize I’m in trouble. I should have left this Rose Cottage Pandora’s box alone. Should not have lifted the lid. Should’ve told Holly I would not clean this house. Too late now. I’m sliding down.
I begin to dust and vacuum and tidy. Jon’s shoes lie in the entryway. I open the hall closet to put them away. In the closet I see their scarves and jackets hanging neatly. A basket of gloves for the winter. Spare car keys on a row of key hooks. The fobs tell me the Rittenbergs drive an Audi and a BMW. I take mental note, absorb everything. It’s all burning into my brain.
But it’s when I go up to vacuum Jon’s office that I strike pay dirt. Without even trying.
While vacuuming the carpet in his office, in my frenzied haste, I bump his desk. His computer monitor flickers to life. I stare. My pulse quickens. It’s a Mac, and the little beach ball of death is spinning around and around on the monitor. Jon must have tried to shut his computer down or put it into sleep mode, but the system has gotten hung up on a glitch. Perhaps something is stuck in the print queue, or a Bluetooth device is attempting to wake his machine, or it’s some misconfigured file.
My heart kicks. I seat myself slowly at Jon’s desk.
His calendar is up on the screen. All his daily appointments are listed. Excitement shimmers. I run my gaze over his upcoming engagements. He’s got meetings, a golf game scheduled, a booking to service his Audi, a dentist’s appointment—his whole world is in here. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of treasures.
I reach for the mouse and open his file finder. A buzzer sounds. I jump, then realize it’s the washing machine. I check my watch. I need to get the laundry into the dryer. I’m running out of time. I need to finish both snooping and cleaning before Daisy Rittenberg comes up the driveway and catches me in the act.
But before I attempt to put the computer back into sleep mode, I quickly scan the list of recently modified folders and documents. And I see it.
Oh, stupid boy.
Inside a folder named PERSONAL nests an Excel document named—yes, you guessed right, Dear Diary—it’s named PSSWDS. Believe it or not, some people have in their computers a file called exactly what it is. They don’t expect to have their intimate details violated inside the safe, nurturing cocoons of their own homes. They’re naive enough to trust they won’t be hacked into. I open the file.
Listed in alphabetical order are the keys to Jon’s digital life—passwords for everything from his Netflix and Dropbox accounts to his Apple ID, along with the password to this very desktop device.
My first thought is: Flash drive! I need to copy all these passwords to a flash drive!
But I don’t have one.
I glance at his printer. Print it?
I have a better idea.
I open his Safari browser, access my own Gmail account, and I attach a copy of Jon’s password files. I mail it to myself, then delete recent browser history. My mouth is dry. I can barely swallow. My skin prickles. I now possess the “Open Sesame” to Aladdin’s cave. I can access Jon’s desktop and all its contents whenever I want. I can know where Jon Rittenberg will be at any given time, as long as the appointment is listed on his calendar. I can even send texts and place calls via his number.
I put the computer in sleep mode.
Pulse racing, face flushed, I quickly finish vacuuming the room. I drag my Dyson out of the office, smooth down my apron, give the room one last check. It looks just as it did when I entered.
I shut the door quietly.
JON
October 18, 2019. Friday.
Thirteen days before the murder.
Jon flips the card Henry gave him over and over and over between his fingers as he sits at his desk in the TerraWest tower. His hungover head throbs. His thoughts are not on work. His brain is consumed with Ahmed Waheed, who sits in a glass office diagonally across the corridor from Jon’s glass office.
He glances up from the card and regards Ahmed. As he watches, Anna Simm, the TerraWest front desk receptionist, enters Ahmed’s office carrying a steaming mug. Ahmed looks up as Anna approaches his desk. Anna’s red dress fits her curves so well it seems painted onto her body. She sets the mug in front of Ahmed and smiles as she flirtatiously moves her hair back from her face. Ahmed says something, and Anna tosses back her head and laughs. Really laughs. As though Ahmed has said the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Jon has never seen Anna laugh that hard.