Chapter 4
The implication of Julian’s words hung heavily in the hallway, shifting the dynamic of the confrontation from a simple theft to something far more calculated. Maeve stopped crying, her breath catching as she stared at the two men. An accomplice? The very idea terrified her more than the accusation itself, because it meant someone within the hotel was actively working against her, using her own credentials as a smokescreen.
“An accomplice?” Clara repeated, her tone sharp, though the initial certainty in her voice had wavered just a fraction. She looked at Maeve, searching the young woman’s face for any sign of recognition or guilt. “Who would help you? Who else works this floor?”
“Nobody!” Maeve cried out, shaking her head frantically. “I eat lunch alone in the basement breakroom. I don't hang out with the other housekeepers. I just come to work, do my shifts, and go home to my younger brother. I don't have friends here, Mr. Pendelton. You know how hard I work!”
Arthur Pendelton frowned, tapping his tablet again to export the raw data file. “Miss Jenkins is telling the truth about her standing here, Mrs. Vance. Department records show she has kept to herself since she was hired. But the digital fingerprint on the door lock is indisputable. Card number four-zero-eight-two—which is assigned exclusively to Maeve Jenkins—swiped the Vances’ door lock at precisely one-twenty-eight in the afternoon.”
Julian crossed his arms, his green jacket creaking slightly as he leaned against the wall. His mind was racing. Julian was a senior partner in a major commercial development firm; he spent his days analyzing blueprints, finding structural flaws, and spotting discrepancies in financial audits. This situation was no different. The evidence pointed directly at Maeve, yet the logistical impossibility of her being in two places at once pointed just as clearly toward a frame-up.
“Arthur,” Julian said evenly, “where is the physical backup for the key cards? Does housekeeping keep spares in an unsecured cabinet?”
“No,” Arthur replied instantly. “Master cards are kept in the security office safe. Only senior supervisors have the combination. And the individual floor cards are checked out every morning against a physical signature log.”
“Let me see that signature log,” Julian demanded, holding out his hand.
Arthur hesitated, glancing down the hall toward the elevator bank, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of airing the hotel’s internal administrative processes in front of a guest. However, the icy glare from Clara Vance convinced the manager that withholding information was far more dangerous than sharing it. With a nervous sigh, Arthur tapped a secondary folder on his tablet and handed the device to Julian.
Julian scrolled through the digital photograph of the morning sign-out sheet. Names and employee ID numbers scrolled past in neat cursive rows. At the top of the list for the third-floor east wing was Maeve’s signature. Below hers, initialed just twenty minutes later, was another name: Raymond Vance.
Julian froze. The tablet nearly slipped from his fingers, his knuckles turning stark white against the casing.
Clara noticed the sudden shift in her husband’s posture. She stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. “Julian? What is it? Whose name is on that log?”
May you like
Julian didn't answer immediately. He stared at the screen, his mind violently rejecting the connection his eyes were making. Raymond Vance. Julian’s younger brother. The charming, perpetually indebted sibling who had been staying in the hotel’s guest suite just down the hall for the past three weeks, ostensibly looking for a job in the city.
“Julian,” Clara repeated, her voice rising with anxiety. “Whose name is on the log?”
