guess some things never change.”
Amanda feels her cheeks grow warm despite the cold blast of air that hits her face as the uniformed doorman pulls open the car door. “Women don’t snore,” she tells Ben testily, grabbing the doorman’s hand and pulling herself up and out of the car.
“I
don’t snore.” She can’t decide if she’s angry at him for his casual—and somewhat proprietary—reference to their shared past, or at herself for falling asleep, as if, by doing so, she hasexposed her vulnerability and thereby allowed him the upper hand. The upper hand at what? she wonders, reaching into the backseat for her overnight bag, feeling the leather fingers of Ben’s gloves brush against her bare knuckles. “I can do that,” she tells him, as he lifts the bag from the backseat and carries it toward the lobby. “You don’t have to come in.” But he is already inside the revolving door, and by the time she pushes her way through, he is only steps away from the reception desk.
Amanda stops abruptly, feeling the whoosh of the glass door as it continues revolving behind her. So, this is where it happened, she thinks, sniffing at the perfumed air for the merest whiff of blood. This is where my mother shot and killed a man.
She stares at the large, rectangular, floral-print rug that cuts across the middle of the large, well-lit lobby, searching for maroon-colored stains anywhere along its dark wool surface, but she finds none, which means it’s undoubtedly a replacement. Can’t very well let a large pool of blood be the first sight that greets unwary travelers. Not exactly the stuff of good first impressions.
A glorious arrangement of real flowers sits in the middle of a mahogany table in the center of the rug. Coppery brown marble covers the walls and floor. Mirrored-glass columns stretch toward the high ceiling. A bank of ornate elevators line the far wall, the reception desk to their right. A lobby bar is on the left, as are several comfortable seating areas, each with a sofa and two chairs in complementary shades of beige. This is where my mother sat all day, waiting to murder one of the guests, Amanda realizes, trying to guess exactly which chair her mother might have chosen.
“Amanda,” Ben calls from the reception desk. “They need some identification.”
Amanda pushes herself toward him, although it seems she’s lost all sensation in her legs. She feels her knees about to give way, and she stumbles. Instantly Ben is at her side, his hand on her elbow, guiding her forward.
“Are you all right?”
“They cleaned things up pretty quick,” she mutters, brushing aside his concern with an impatient toss of her head, and proffering her passport to the clerk.
“Good evening, Ms. Travis.” The young man’s smile reveals at least a dozen more teeth than necessary. “Nice to have you with us. I see you’ll be staying here for seven nights.”
“No,” Amanda corrects sharply.
The desk clerk visibly blanches, his teeth disappearing behind the thin line of his lips.
“Two nights will be more than enough.” Amanda glares at her former husband, as if to say, What on earth would make you think I might consider staying a full week?
Ben says nothing. The desk clerk pushes a form across the desk, indicates the place for her signature.
“Don’t you need an imprint of my credit card?” Amanda asks when the clerk fails to request it.
“The gentleman has already taken care of that.”
Amanda smiles tightly and hands the clerk her own credit card, whispering under her breath to Ben, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just trying to expedite things.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know that.” He refrains from stating the obvious—“You always have”—but she hears it anyway.
What was John Mallins doing at the reception desk when her mother shot him? she wonders. Was this the same clerk he’d been talking to at the time?
“You’re on the sixteenth floor,” the young
Amanda feels her cheeks grow warm despite the cold blast of air that hits her face as the uniformed doorman pulls open the car door. “Women don’t snore,” she tells Ben testily, grabbing the doorman’s hand and pulling herself up and out of the car.
“I
don’t snore.” She can’t decide if she’s angry at him for his casual—and somewhat proprietary—reference to their shared past, or at herself for falling asleep, as if, by doing so, she hasexposed her vulnerability and thereby allowed him the upper hand. The upper hand at what? she wonders, reaching into the backseat for her overnight bag, feeling the leather fingers of Ben’s gloves brush against her bare knuckles. “I can do that,” she tells him, as he lifts the bag from the backseat and carries it toward the lobby. “You don’t have to come in.” But he is already inside the revolving door, and by the time she pushes her way through, he is only steps away from the reception desk.
Amanda stops abruptly, feeling the whoosh of the glass door as it continues revolving behind her. So, this is where it happened, she thinks, sniffing at the perfumed air for the merest whiff of blood. This is where my mother shot and killed a man.
She stares at the large, rectangular, floral-print rug that cuts across the middle of the large, well-lit lobby, searching for maroon-colored stains anywhere along its dark wool surface, but she finds none, which means it’s undoubtedly a replacement. Can’t very well let a large pool of blood be the first sight that greets unwary travelers. Not exactly the stuff of good first impressions.
A glorious arrangement of real flowers sits in the middle of a mahogany table in the center of the rug. Coppery brown marble covers the walls and floor. Mirrored-glass columns stretch toward the high ceiling. A bank of ornate elevators line the far wall, the reception desk to their right. A lobby bar is on the left, as are several comfortable seating areas, each with a sofa and two chairs in complementary shades of beige. This is where my mother sat all day, waiting to murder one of the guests, Amanda realizes, trying to guess exactly which chair her mother might have chosen.
“Amanda,” Ben calls from the reception desk. “They need some identification.”
Amanda pushes herself toward him, although it seems she’s lost all sensation in her legs. She feels her knees about to give way, and she stumbles. Instantly Ben is at her side, his hand on her elbow, guiding her forward.
“Are you all right?”
“They cleaned things up pretty quick,” she mutters, brushing aside his concern with an impatient toss of her head, and proffering her passport to the clerk.
“Good evening, Ms. Travis.” The young man’s smile reveals at least a dozen more teeth than necessary. “Nice to have you with us. I see you’ll be staying here for seven nights.”
“No,” Amanda corrects sharply.
The desk clerk visibly blanches, his teeth disappearing behind the thin line of his lips.
“Two nights will be more than enough.” Amanda glares at her former husband, as if to say, What on earth would make you think I might consider staying a full week?
Ben says nothing. The desk clerk pushes a form across the desk, indicates the place for her signature.
“Don’t you need an imprint of my credit card?” Amanda asks when the clerk fails to request it.
“The gentleman has already taken care of that.”
Amanda smiles tightly and hands the clerk her own credit card, whispering under her breath to Ben, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just trying to expedite things.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know that.” He refrains from stating the obvious—“You always have”—but she hears it anyway.
What was John Mallins doing at the reception desk when her mother shot him? she wonders. Was this the same clerk he’d been talking to at the time?
“You’re on the sixteenth floor,” the young
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