Free Blonde Ops by Charlotte Bennardo Page A

doorway in another exquisitely fitted, expensive-looking suit. He leaned with one slender palm pressed on the inside of the door frame. When would I be able to dust that? Probably never.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he said.
    I lifted up the glass boldly. “My job. Collecting dishes and trash. Haven’t you seen Kevin’s chart?”
    â€œWith a backpack?”
    â€œMultitasking,” I said, not missing a beat. “Kevin says I can’t stash my stuff up here anymore. Figured I’d stop in to see if there was anything to clear away. And look.” I shook the glass at him.
    He deliberated a moment. “Fine. Go.”
    I pushed past him and ran downstairs to the kitchen, not stopping until I was safely locked in the bathroom. Only then did I exhale. Close call! I held the bottle, the cup, and last, Candace’s glass up to the light for closer inspection. The glass had three glorious prints. My guess: index, middle, and thumb.
    Priceless.
    I dusted and photographed the glass, then ran them through the Compare/Contrast app on my phone. Who knew an app designed to compare designer handbags to see if you bought the real thing or a fake could also be used for comparing other things—like fingerprints. The result—no matches.
    Somehow I felt deflated that it wasn’t Candace who’d searched my room. But that just meant she’d had one of the agents do it. When I found a match, she was going to hear about it.
    I dusted the bottle and cup. No match on Case or Nelson either, clearing them. That left Agent Ortiz and Varon. I took a wet paper towel and wiped away the powdered prints. Ducking out of the bathroom, I stashed my backpack under a couch in the common room. With the agents about, I was more determined than ever to keep their prying fingers off my laptop. If they found out about my hospital trawl and confiscated it, a search might reveal things that would set me up for another round of questioning—and maybe a red-eye flight back home. And I wasn’t leaving without finding out about Parker.
    All that was left was to return the borrowed brush and powder to the makeup station, put the water bottle in the recycling bin, and wash the cup and glass—which I did without anyone having a clue. I joined Sophie, who was helping Francesca stamp and address envelopes at the front desk.
    â€œShould I have Joe cut my hair? Taj is really into bangs now,” Francesca said.
    Sophie shrugged in response.
    â€œWho is Ta—” I began to ask, when Kevin interrupted me.
    â€œBec. Angelo needs you in the studio.”
    â€œI’ll go!” Francesca jumped up, smoothing her hair. Kevin shook his head and crooked a finger at me. “Now.”
    I spent the remainder of the morning as Angelo’s second assistant, which meant tilting lights by the millimeter, learning which camera he wanted next, and adjusting Taliah’s clothes seam by seam. When the day crept past noon, people started trickling out of the office. Sophie found me helping Aldo dismantle the gigantic green screen.
    â€œLet’s go out for lunch,” she suggested. “You look like you need to get out of here.”
    â€œWe’ll have to sneak out,” I whispered, “Candace hasn’t given me permission to leave.”
    Sophie laughed. “No need. She’s already gone.” Downstairs, she grabbed her purse from a desk drawer and I quickly snagged my backpack from under the couch.
    First we stopped off at a bank where I exchanged more of my money. Apparently we got lucky because the clerk behind the desk was about to shut down for his own lunch.
    â€œWho closes up at one in the afternoon?” I asked.
    â€œAround here? That’s normal. Everyone takes a long lunch, except at Edge .” She made a face. “But even we can take a breather once in a while.”
    My greenbacks swapped for colorful euros, I stuffed them into my wallet as we stepped outside.