Chapter 2 - The Silent Corridor
The private elevator rose without a sound, the brushed steel walls reflecting our distorted shapes under recessed amber lighting. Lily didn't stir when the car glided to a smooth halt and the doors slid open. I shifted my weight, supporting her legs with my forearm, and stepped out onto a thick gray carpet that swallowed the sound of my boots.
The hallway smelled of cedar and old paper. Sconces cast warm, amber pools of light against charcoal-gray wallpaper. My fingers gripped the heavy card key Patricia had slid across the desk with trembling fingers, her earlier disdain entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, frantic compliance. She hadn't asked for a credit card. She hadn't asked for identification. She had simply printed the card, placed it in a black leather sleeve, and pushed it toward me as if sliding an offering across an altar.
I walked down the dim corridor, counting the brass numbers set into the dark wood doors. 1404. 1406. 1408.
The door to Suite 1412 swung open with a pneumatic hiss when I tapped the card against the brass sensor. I stepped inside, backing through the threshold before kicking the heavy door shut with the heel of my boot.
The suite was vast, dark, and freezing. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the blurred lights of the downtown skyline through a veil of steady rain. I crossed the open-plan living room, navigating around a low velvet sofa and a glass coffee table, and carried Lily straight into the bedroom.
I laid her down gently on the king-sized mattress, her pink sweater bunching slightly at her shoulders. She turned her face into the down pillow, exhaling a soft sigh, her fingers still tangled in the gray stuffed rabbit's ear. I pulled a heavy wool throw blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her, tucking it in around her small shoulders.
When I stood up, the silence of the room pressed against my ears. I walked back toward the entryway, my eyes adjusting to the dim light spilling in from the streetlamps below. On the mahogany entryway console, I laid the bouquet of damaged red roses down. The brown paper made a dry, rustling sound against the polished wood.
May you like
As I turned away, something caught my eye on the adjacent writing desk—a leather portfolio resting beside a sleek, silent landline phone. I stepped closer. Embossed in gold leaf on the dark leather were my initials: E.V.
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