“Ouch! Dammit!” Between the lingering scent of cinnamon syrup in the air and the pain as Marina digs her nails under the edges of the sticky side panels, I struggle not to cry.
“One, two—” Ripping both sides off at the same time is one of Marina’s many talents, and sheneverwaits until three to do it. “There. All better. Put some aloe vera on those marks before you come out, and I’ll order up a fresh tea service.”
A velvet and silk bathrobe hangs on the back of the door, and I pull it on, retrieve the shoes from the sink and shove them into the plastic-lined trash can. Ten minutes later, my feet and ankles scrubbed within an inch of bloody, I slather on the aloe vera and tiptoe gingerly into the bedroom.
Instead of my sleep shirt and shorts laid out on the bed, I find a pair of black yoga pants, a tank top, a soft blue sweater, and socks. I’m too tired to care, so I dress, but before I open the door to the main room, my phone buzzes in my evening bag.
Max: Need to talk to you. Come to Room 422. Alone.
It’s about damn time. My lightweight, cushioned Sketchers feel like heaven after hours in heels. I don’t bother swapping out my evening bag, just tuck it—complete with the heavy room key inside—under my arm and rush into the main room.
Marina pauses, a bone china tea cup in her hand. “Sloane? Where are you going?” The cup rattles as she skirts the beige velvet sofa.
“Max texted. Finally. I have to go to his room so we can figure out what to do next. It’s going to be okay, Marina. I promise.” Waving the phone at her, I flash a tight smile. “Be back soon.”
She calls after me, but the heavy door clicks shut, leaving the silence of the hall to envelop me.
The plush deep purple carpets are like walking on air, and I rush through the empty corridor, around the corner, and to the opposite side of the hotel. If Maxtried,he couldn’t have booked a room farther from mine.
The door to room 422 isn’t locked—the swing bar latch is flipped backwards to stop it from closing completely. “Max?”
Knocking quietly, I push on the door and peek my head inside. His room is the mirror image of mine. The same overstuffed sofas, the same thick beige carpet over polished marble floors, the same heavy drapes—though his are drawn shut.
I can’t seeanything. The single lamp next to the desk is on its lowest setting, casting a pale, yellow circle that barely reaches the edge of the dark cherry wood.
“Max? I got your text.” Two steps into the room, the door rattles against the slipped latch, and I stifle my yelp. But at least my eyes adjust. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner, shadows hiding half his face, head tipped back like he’s asleep. But the man has a strong, sharp nose, and I’d recognize it anywhere.
“This is ridiculous. Are you pretending to beThe Godfatheror something? After what I told you earlier? It’s not funny. I’m turning on the lights.”
Brushing the switch next to the door, I turn back to him.
He’s not asleep. My purse hits the floor. I want to scream, but no sound comes out.
Crimson spills from a rough, ragged gash across his throat, soaking the front of his white dress shirt. There’s so much. It’s everywhere. I can’t smell the Kvasya anymore. Only the thick, coppery stench of blood.
Falling to my knees, I cover my mouth as a wail builds in my chest.
No, no, no. Not Max. Not here.
“Sloane! Look at me!” The strong, smooth voice carries weight, and I fall onto my ass trying to twist around.
It’s the man from the bar. The one who was so nice. The one whose handkerchief is still tucked in my purse. Was he following me? Following Max? Oh, God. He could be the one who…shit. I have to get out of here.
My fingers curl around the strap of my evening bag, and I stagger to my feet. I have to get out of here. But he’s between me and the door.
Think, Sloane. Distract him. Dosomething.
“Who are you?” I ask, adjusting my grip on my bag. It’s heavy—the Baur au Lac’s room key enough to do some serious damage.
“There’s time for that later. Right now, you need to listen to me—”
I swing the purse with all my strength, and it collides with the man’s jaw.
“Fuck,” he groans, cupping his cheek and staggering a few steps to the right.
I take off at a run, the purple carpet nothing but a blur as I spring down the corridor toward my room.
Get inside. Just get inside and call the police.
