The advertisements promised legal work.
Housing.
Stable wages.
Then passports disappeared.
Paychecks stopped.
Phones were confiscated.
Doors were locked.
Women were moved from house to house like inventory.
At first, Monica assumed it was wage theft.
Ugly.
Criminal.
But not unusual.
Then the source gave one name.
Katherine Prescott.
Socialite.
Philanthropist.
Board member of three human-rights charities.
Host of an annual fundraising gala called An Evening for Human Dignity.
Monica volunteered for the assignment.
Her editor stared at her.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“You’re recognizable.”
“Not in a maid’s uniform with shorter hair and no makeup.”
“Monica.”
“If we send somebody inexperienced into that house and the source is right, they could get hurt.”
“So could you.”
Monica looked at him.
“That’s why I’m going.”
Three weeks later, she arrived at the Prescott mansion carrying one suitcase and a false résumé.
Hidden inside the collar of her uniform was a camera smaller than a shirt button.
