THE CUSTODIAN

  WINTER K. WILLIS

  CONNECT WITH WINTER

  Winter K. Willis is a pseudonym for our two-person writing team. We like to think of it as our band name. We love telling our characters' stories and hope that you enjoy reading them.

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  www.winterkwillis.com

  Copyright © 2025 by Winter K. Willis

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Celestial Bear Publishing

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The content of this book is for entertainment only and does not constitute as health, medical, legal or financial advice. Purchasing and/or reading this book does not retain consulting services from the authors in any capacity. For any health-related inquiries, please contact your healthcare providers.

  ALSO BY WINTER K. WILLIS

  THE ASSISTANT SERIES:

  THE ASSISTANT

  STANDALONES:

  THE WIFE INSIDE

  HOW THE AFFAIR ENDS

  BEHIND THE NEIGHBOR’S DOOR

  THE PERFECT GIFT

  THE PERFECT EX-WIFE

  THE LAST CHANCE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Also by WINTER K. WILLIS

  A Letter From Winter

  Connect with Winter

  PROLOGUE

  PREFACE:

  “This is a story about a person with a very, very boring job. You can’t convince us otherwise.”

  -Jade and Kay

  (Winter K. Willis)

  PROLOGUE : (FUTURE)

  I sit in the backseat of the car with my head leaning against the cool glass. My face is sticky from tears, sweat and blood that isn’t mine.

  The city lights of Los Angeles blur past the window as the car moves down empty streets. I stare ahead without really seeing anything. I feel heavy.

  Four bodies. I have worked this job for just a few months, and four people have dropped. I’m the constant. The center of the storm. How can I be innocent in all this? My fingers run across the thick blood drying into my black shirt. Even if all four of them were guilty, none of them deserved this.

  I have to believe that. Because if they got what they deserved... then what do I deserve?

  1

  PRESENT

  The hallway outside my small rental smells like damp towels and reheated soup. It’s the kind of place that’s been cleaned just enough for most people not to complain about, but not enough to feel like it’s yours. I’ve never unpacked. Not that I have much; it's only one duffle bag.

  My place has four walls and a tiny empty closet. When you go out of my room and down the hall, there is a community kitchen, a community bathroom, and showers. There are about twenty other so-called tenants here. I try to avoid them; they remind me too much of the people I used to live with. The rent is slightly overpriced, but it’s month-to-month. The format of this place is weird to many people, but unfortunately, I'm used to it. When I had the choice of where to stay, it was either this place or something worse. At least here, I have my own room and a lock on the door. That's all I really need.

  I pull out my duffel bag from underneath the sagging nightstand, unzip it a few inches, and take out my neatly folded blouse. I attempted to press the wrinkles out two nights ago between a stack of library books and a heated pan from the shared kitchen. I'm not a moron though; I turned it inside out first, so when I got a slight char mark from the pan, I was confident it wouldn't show up on the front. Once I realized that I couldn't get it perfect, I got frustrated and gave up. It's the only girly top I have, but I've resigned myself to thinking it doesn't really matter for the type of job interview that I'm about to go on.

  The mirror on the wall above the nightstand is tiny, but I manage to fix my thick, jet-black hair into a low bun with one hair tie and a single bobby pin. I swipe the lint off my slacks and breathe deep. I leave before the guy in the next room starts playing his harmonica through the wall like he’s done every day for the weeks that I’ve been here. It's not even bad, but I can’t afford distractions. Not today.

  The office building isn’t far, just a few stops on the city bus. The office’s glass doors shimmer in the sunlight, like they were just installed this morning. I wonder who is paid to clean them.

  Inside, it’s quieter in the lobby than I expected. Air-conditioned, too bright, too neutral. A woman with clipped blonde hair and a navy blouse is waiting near the elevators.

  “You must be Penny. For the custodian job, right?” she asks. “Hazel. I’m VP of HR. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

  I immediately think about checking my phone for the time. If she was waiting for me, does that mean she thinks I'm late? I'm afraid to ask. I can't be late. I'm never late.

  I nod. “Thanks for meeting me. Sorry that you were waiting.”

  “No. Sorry, I worded that weird. I just got out of the last meeting early. You’re actually a little early, also. That’s a good sign.” She gestures toward the elevators. “Let’s get started.”

  Okay, so far so good. Maybe she was just running an errand and decided to wait for me.

  We step inside and she presses a button for the fifteenth floor. She’s got a clipboard tucked under her arm, a water bottle looped around her wrist, and that easy, practiced smile of someone who knows exactly how many seconds to make eye contact without making it weird. I never figured that one out.

  “I saw that you already did the phone screening with corporate?”

  “Yeah. Last week they called me.”

  “Perfect. So most of today will be pretty standard onboarding,” she says. “I’ll show you around, we’ll handle the forms, and then you’ll get some space to settle in. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good,” I say. I try not to show confusion because I thought this was a job interview, and she's talking to me like I already have the gig. Who would I be to correct her? Was the phone call the actual interview? They did ask questions. I kinda feel guilty for not saying anything, but this could be a break for me, and I definitely need one.

  She walks like someone who is used to moving with purpose. Even her flats click against the polished floor. She points things out as we go. I take note of the departments, breakrooms, and a copy room that’s been taped off for maintenance. I hope that I'm not starting to sweat because I don't want to give away that she's probably making a mistake. We passed several dozen workers who don't even look at me, but some of them smile at Hazel. I understand that I am short and invisible in almost every setting, but it seems a little off that they would not even take note of me if I'm walking with her. Maybe she has done this several times already today. Maybe this is how she interviews people to see if they're honest? I think I'm an honest person, but this is confusing, and I don't like games. I try to feign attentiveness when she rattles off nam
es I’ll forget five minutes later.

  Then, we pass a hallway that narrows toward a glass-walled office at the end. Hazel slows her pace a little, just for a second, and that’s when I hear a voice.

  “I don’t care if it’s late. You were supposed to double-check it. That’s what we pay you for.”

  The door is cracked open. I glance out of reflex. There’s a man behind the desk, mid-40s maybe, salt-and-pepper hair that probably costs more to maintain than my overpriced LA rent. He’s on the phone, but his voice carries easily. The kind that doesn’t know how to whisper. A woman sits across from him. She's maybe in her 20s, and her hair is dark red. She looks like she's trying to disappear into her chair. She looks up just once. Her mouth moves. He cuts her off with a sharp hand wave.

  “That’s Tristen,” Hazel says, eyes ahead again. “He can be... intense.”

  I don’t say anything. Neither does she for a beat.

  “Executive Vice President,” she adds after a moment. “You won’t deal with him at all, especially considering you'll be here mostly at night. He’s very results-driven.”

  I file that away, and I'm thankful for not having to deal with someone like him. We keep walking. The woman, whoever she is, doesn’t follow us out. I don’t know if she’s stuck in that office or choosing to stay.

  “What up, bro?” a frat boy-looking guy says. He peeks his head into Tristen’s office.

  I can’t hear what he says as Hazel and I keep walking.

  “That was Cheng,” she says. “Even though you won’t work with them, you’ll hear both of them a lot around here, probably. Best to just ignore the chaos.”

  Tristen and Cheng... TC... Team Chaos. Easy enough to remember.

  Hazel leads me into an open-plan workspace on the west side of the building. There’s a row of low cubicles, all sterile-looking with tiny potted succulents and a couple of plastic awards on a shared shelf. Sunlight spills through oversized windows that don’t open.

  “This is your desk.” She rests her hand on the back of a standard-issue chair. “You’ll have access to an email where people can put in work orders, but typically, you’ll be following the route on your printed schedule daily. They don’t really want you sitting at the desk. Again, it’s to print the route and work orders. You’ll need to get here by four pm to start your shift, and just about everyone will be gone by six-thirty most days. You’ll be here till about midnight. Maxwell, the security guard, will be here if you need him. Everyone’s a little underwater right now, so don’t be surprised if you’re left to figure things out for a bit. But if you get stuck, just email me.”

  “Got it.”

  She watches me for a second longer than necessary, then says, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just taking it in.”

  She nods, like she’s heard that before. “I know there’s a lot of noise here compared to downstairs,” she says. “Don’t let it shake you. The first days are always a shock. It doesn’t mean anything. If you see a celebrity, please just ignore them. Just smile and keep moving.”

  “Celebrity? What do you all do here?”

  “A bunch of things, but development is a big part since two of the floors are the production company.”

  “Got it.” There are a ton of lesser-known entertainment companies in LA, which is probably why I didn’t recognize the name when I applied. I don’t care about celebrities, though. I don’t really know any. Hazel says it with a calm certainty that makes me think she’s coached more than one new hire through panic.

  We loop back around past the kitchenette and stop outside a glass office near the middle of the floor.

  “This is mine. If you need to talk or just get out of your head for a minute, you’re welcome to come in. I don’t keep the door locked.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate that.”

  “Of course. So you’ll need to complete the onboarding on the computer at your desk, and then we’ll wrap up.”

  As she’s turning to leave, the woman from Tristen’s office comes out and walks briskly down the hall. Her eyes are glassy, but her makeup hasn’t smudged. She doesn’t look at us. She moves like someone trying not to be followed.

  “She okay?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  Hazel doesn’t answer right away.

  “That’s Soleil,” she says finally. “She’s ambitious. There’s nothing wrong with wanting more. But it comes with pressure.”

  Then she gives a short smile, like she’s said too much, and walks back into her office.

  Before I can figure out a way to put my foot in my mouth and lose out on the job, I walk back to my desk and sit down. I decide to complete the onboarding sequence Hazel mentioned before they change their minds. I log in with the temporary password they emailed me. My fingers hover over the keys for a while. Across the floor, Tristen’s door is still closed.

  Nothing about this place looks wrong. The desks are organized. The floor is polished. For the most part, everyone wears the right expressions. But I keep thinking about Soleil and Tristen and about how Hazel acted like it was normal. Maybe if I keep my head down, I won’t have any issues. I need this to work out. Because I’m small and usually quiet, most people don’t notice me. Maybe this will work in my favor.

  I click to open the orientation packet and start reading.

  The job confirmation comes through at 10:46 a.m.

  I’m sitting on the bus, watching a single drip slide down the inside of the window, trying not to go insane. The email comes with a formal subject line and a polite congratulations. It’s minimum wage, but it’s full-time. Plus some benefits and a desk. I’ve never had a desk.

  I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel the way I always feel when something goes right, like I’m waiting for the catch. When I get back to my room, I know immediately something’s off. The door was locked and the window is still shut, but it's the aluminum foldable chair that's been slightly moved. I wedge the chair under the door handle when I sleep. It's not gonna stop a determined person, but at least the noise that it would make would give me a warning if someone was trying to come in at night, now the chair has been moved about four inches different than where I usually set it when I leave.

  I immediately check my duffel bag under the nightstand. Nothing major is missing. Not that there’s something worth stealing; it’s mostly a couple of changes of clothes and toiletries. I’m looking to see if things have been moved, and they have. Someone’s been in my room. And not to rob me. To look.

  I throw everything I own into the duffel and leave. I know if it were the other people I live with, they would've made more of a mess, maybe even stolen my phone charger or something petty like that. No, this was a professional, which means that the people I've been hiding from have finally found me.

  2

  Ihave made contingencies for when I was to be found. If I were able to run, I would, but my parole doesn't let me leave the state. I don't know how to do any live in the woods type of thing or survive off the land. I'm a city person, so my best option is to try to hide in plain sight.

  The first thing I need to do is go to a populated place, so I head to the train station. People really have no clue how packed the train stations in LA can get. If someone's watching me, I can easily lose them down there. Making my way through the sea of people, I exit on the other side, without taking a train and head to the nearest department store. When I get there, I head straight to the dressing room. There's no attendant, which is the reason I've chosen this place. I completely dump my duffel bag. I'm looking for any form of tracking device, and I know I sound like a paranoid, crazy person, but I have to be sure. Once I see that there's nothing abnormal, I take a deep breath. This store is open 24 hours, so I know that I can come back here later tonight to sleep in the dressing room if I need to, but because I just got a job, I decide to jump to the next part of my plan and find a cheap apartment on the B&B app. I know it's going to be overpriced, but with the little bit that I have in my account, I can cover the first month, and after that, I'll be able to hopefully cover it with the paychecks. It doesn't take me long to find a furnished, rundown place and a shady part of town.

  The new place is in East Hollywood, tucked between a broken laundromat and a dry cleaner that looks like it gets no customers. The building has four units. Across a narrow, cracked driveway, there’s another just like it with four more units, beige paint peeling around the windows. To remind me that I live in a cramped part of the city, the scenic view outside the window is a view of the neighbor’s window from across the driveway.