I pick up the envelope and read the inscription on the front.
For Bradley Little, The Vista Hotel, Room 502.
So much for the coincidence. The dress was intentional, then. Someone is taunting me—but who?
It doesn’t take long to figure out.
Jesse Youngman.
I open the envelope, and a small sheet of paper drops out. On it, a page ripped from a poetry book. I recognize it immediately.The Last Duchessby Robert Browning. I taught it for over a decade.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive.”
“Bastard.”
“Huh?”
“Ah, it’s a practical joke,” I say, forcing a smile. “An old friend is staying with me at the hotel. He must have thought it would be funny.”
Stella’s drink arrives, and she visibly relaxes. “Can you tell him to knock it off? Not all my clients are as classy as you. It freaked me out.”
“Of course, my dear.” I fold up the poem and stare at Stella’s made-up face. She’s a beautiful young woman—probably more attractive when she isn’t dressed for work. “Now that you’ve come all this way, would you like to stay?”
She looks pleased with the idea, and I wonder if it’s just the money she likes, or if she’s developing feelings for me. “What’s the poem about?”
“It’s about a man who killed his wife and is about to marry someone else.”
“Jesus, really? I thought it was about a painting.”
“It is that, too.”
“I was good at English at school. Teachers said I was a natural.” She looks sadly into her drink. “Didn’t last past ninth grade, though.”
As she talks about her childhood, I try to focus on her beauty, on how it will be, later, in the dark, just us, her living body beneath me, our souls… But all I can think about is Jesse. How did he know about Stella? And why did she come here, dressed to the nines, just to deliver a letter? Why didn’t she just leave it at reception? What’s her game?
I down my drink in one.
“Let’s go.”
She raises one eyebrow, but nods. “Down to business.”
“No,” I say. “Not business.”
I walk quickly from the bar to the elevator, her heels click-clacking behind me. When the elevator door closes, she leans down to rub her ankle.
I grab her wrist and pull her up to face me.
“You’re keen, aren’t you?”
She lets out a moan, a practiced, crafted moan, an artisanal moan. She thinks that I’m overcome with passion. But then my grip tightens, and the performance drops.
“Hey, man, you’re hurting me.”
“What’s his name?”
She tries to pull away, but can’t manage it. She’s stronger than Grace, but not strong enough. “Who?”
“The man who gave you the letter. Who was it?”
