In the distance, the back door clanged open. Heavy boots stomped down the hall from both directions. Andreas clenched his eyes shut and let out a frustrated exhale. He opened his eyes, looked from the body to her, then reached for his cuffs.
“I have to,” he said, softly, almost pleading. She had only a few seconds, and she took them. She ran. If not to escape, then at least to warn Fernando, who’d arrive any second.
The uneven floor snagged her stockings, ripping them as she scrambled away. He was fast on her heels, which wasn’t a compliment to his athletic skill. She rounded the corner and ran smack into Beate’s outstretched arm.Thud.
Beate straddled her, holding her wrists behind her back. The dooropened again, followed by the sound of Fernando’s light-heeled steps shuffling her way. Sterling let out two sharp whistles of warning. His footsteps halted, then rushed in the opposite direction. The front door slammed. He’d understood. He was safe. He’d get help.
“You’re under arrest,” said Beate.
“What the hell were you thinking?” said Andreas.
Sterling wasn’t thinking anything. She’d gone numb.
She rested her cheek against the filthy, frozen ground, exhaustion washing over her. That was the moment denial gave out and reality hit, cold and hard as the concrete. Hedy was really dead.
Sterling shut down, lighting the flickering No Vacancy sign on her mind hotel. When Andreas cuffed her, she didn’t even make a joke about it.
— 41 —Einundvierzig
People had accused Sterling of being many things: a womanizer, a home-wrecker, a whore. She’d been each of those at some point, but she’d never broken a heart, a vow, or a law that wasn’t already cracked.
She’d even been called a murderer. For once, it looked like the label might stick.
The oversize sweatsuit she wore reeked like a lost-and-found box. After seizing her bloody coat, police demanded she cover her lingerie for decency’s sake and provided her with this scratchy monstrosity. At least it cushioned the hard metal bench. Sterling lay on her back staring at caged ceiling pipes and hoping someone would find her. She’d used her one call to phone Fernando. He’d promised to be there soon.
That was thirty hours ago. Or so she estimated; she had no means to tell time, so hours stretched endlessly. She thought of Serafina’s clock sitting in the storage compartment. She hoped police just saw a dusty antique and not a priceless key to a wealth of secrets.
By now, she’d navigated every sparse inch of her cage and discoveredif she smushed her face against the bars in the far left corner, she could see a hint of the frosted-glass door behind which the guard stood. She watched silhouettes come and go, hoping to see a familiar shape—Fernando’s glasses, Beate’s slender frame, or Andreas’s hair—until the bars threatened to bruise her forehead.
Eventually, she gave up. Things had been so simple a few weeks ago. When her problems were as easy as the women who kept her bed warm in the afternoons.
A pang of guilt shot through her stomach. She missed the Hotel. She closed her eyes, weaving through the halls in her mind. A realization blocked her path. A memory.
After Beate’s visit, she’d found that compartment hidden in Room 6’s wall. Madame’s phone call distracted her after, and she’d forgotten. Maybe it was connected. Once she got out of here, she’d check.Ifshe got out.
She knelt on the floor, hands clasped, a moment from praying. Instead, she wept. She wailed. She called Serafina’s name through heaving sobs, hyperventilating until she’d drained the dregs of her energy. Finally, she rolled onto her side and slept.
She fell into sober, sweat-inducing nightmares of Hedy shrieking, her scream the chime of a ringing telephone, the black maw of Room 5 opening to swallow her whole.
She awoke, arm numbed from pressing the floor. Jostled from sleep by cell bars rattling open. He was waiting there.
Mr. K.
He lifted her to her feet, wrapped her in his blazer, then led her out the station’s back door, keeping her close. His limo waited outside, its ED3N B4R plate gleaming. He opened the door. She slid in, delirious.
“I’ll be right back—I have a few details to sort. There’s food for you. Eat, please,” he said, then shut the door and returned inside.
Mr. K had prepared her a penicillin cocktail. A little scotch, a little honey. Basically medicine. He’d prepared a meal. He’d taken care of everything. He knew what she needed.
She closed the divider between herself and the driver, then dove into the sandwich. It might have been the best of her life. A dollop of homemade red pepper spread dropped onto Mr. K’s blazer. She blotted it with tonic from the sidebar, catching her reflection in the tinted window. She looked like shit. She grabbed his pocket square to dry the stain and two square pieces of paper fell out, then drifted onto her lap.
Notes from Nightingale.
The door clicked open. Mr. K slid in beside her.
“Were you snooping, Little Spoon?” he said, pinching the notes off her lap, stacking them to align their corners. He shook his head in disapproval.
The ice in her glass rattled.
