Five-Star Liar

Nina's fingers moved across the subway tile, checking for water spots she'd already wiped twice. The lavender room spray sat on the counter—three pumps, never four. She'd learned the exact amount that suggested clean without announcing effort.

The welcome basket needed adjustment. She shifted the bag of local coffee beans a quarter inch left, centering it between the almond biscotti and the small jar of marionberry preserves. The flowers—white ranunculus this week—leaned slightly toward the window. She rotated the vase.

Her phone buzzed. The cleaning cart she'd borrowed from the building's actual maintenance closet stood in the bathroom doorway, its presence her insurance policy. If anyone asked, she was staff. Just staff.

The message made her stomach drop.

Running early—should be there in 10 minutes if that's okay? —Elliot

Ten minutes. The Murphy bed wasn't down yet. She'd planned another hour to stage, to check, to make everything perfect before disappearing to the parking lot for the next three days.

Her hands found the bed's frame, pulling it down from the wall with practiced silence. The hotel-quality sheets—Egyptian cotton, four hundred thread count, the splurge that kept her rating perfect—were already tucked and waiting. She smoothed the duvet, fluffed the pillows, checked that the corners met the floor at exactly the same angle.

The cart. She needed to move the cart.

She was wheeling it toward the door when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Not the shuffle of the elderly couple in 3B. These were purposeful, stopping at intervals. Checking apartment numbers.

They stopped outside her door.

Nina froze, one hand still on the cart's handle. The welcome packet sat on the breakfast bar—she'd printed it last night at the library, the same library where she charged her laptop and pretended to be working on something important while really just updating her listing's calendar.