Arthur was standing near the metal shelving, holding a wooden clipboard with our weekly supply lists. His retired security manager uniform was gone, replaced by a gray flannel shirt, but he still checked his brass pocket watch when I walked into the light.
“Arthur,” I said, setting my bucket down on the concrete floor. “There is a fresh scratch on the penthouse safe, right by the keyhole.”
The wooden clipboard slipped from his fingers, clattering against the concrete floor and scattering three sheets of yellow paper.
Arthur did not bend down to pick them up right away. He let out a dry, gravelly cough, his eyes staying on the base of the shelves.
“You should not be looking at that safe, Rosa,” he said, his voice lower than usual.
“Leo saw it first,” I said, reaching down to grab the stray papers for him. “It looks like someone tried to force the lock.”
Arthur snatched the sheets from my hand before I could stack them.
“I told you before,” he said, turning his back to place the clipboard on a shelf. “You keep your head down and you clean the floors. Some rooms are better left completely dark.”
