Page 68 of Don't Tell

"My name is Adrian."

"Oh…hi."

"You're the artist?"

I look at him.The artist?No one in this hotel calls me an artist. Only the housekeeper from floor eight, the girl who works the penthouse rotation.

"Why do you say that?"

"I saw you talking with Eli Brandt and Cade Nightingale earlier. I drew the obvious conclusion."

"Mmm…"

"Are you?"

I shrug. "Not officially. I make some sketches and paint when I can."

He smiles. "Perfect."

"Perfect?"

He nods. "Yes. I scout for emerging talent. I run a small representation arm. I'd love to look at your portfolio when you have a moment."

He hands me a card.

I take it. It is a heavy card of cream paper with black type, listing Adrian, a phone number, and an email address at a domain I don't recognize, but there is no company name, no title, and no address.

"Did Cade send you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know I've spoken to you."

"And you don't want him to?"

"I'd prefer to start a conversation with you on its own terms. If there's a conversation to be had at all. The number is good. Call when you've made up your mind."

I look at the card, then back at him. I put the card in my apron pocket.

"Thank you."

He nods once and walks away.

I watch him cross the ballroom and disappear through the door at the far end, and I keep my hand against the apron pocket where the card is until the door has closed behind him.

I take my hand off the pocket, and I go back to the flutes.

That was strange.

The side door opens, and Roger comes in.

He is not alone.

He has the assistant manager from the front desk with him. Devon wears a navy blazer with a gold pin on the lapel and has a tense, uncomfortable expression as if he doesn’t want to be a witness and wishes he were home.

Roger is moving fast, holding a clipboard.