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“But how?”
“The money we use to keep this place running and arrange for events like tonight does not come from a good place. Believe me.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question!”
“Hypothetically. Let’s say there’s a mission the government doesn’t want to get involved in. So they give us a heads-up that a huge drug deal is about to go down, which they want stopped. Let’s say we’re involved in keeping it from going through, and in the process, whoops, a few million dollars falls into our laps.”
“That happens?”
“Hypothetically.” He lowers his brow and stares at me with an intensity that makes me shiver. “This is all hypothetical. Now, if that kind of thing were to happen, all of it would be off the record. That’s how these things go. There’s no paper trail, no documentation. There’s no requirement to give the money to anyone. It might as well not exist.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “I see.”
“That answers your question?”
Sure, but not without unlocking a few dozen more. “I get it. Thank you for the explanation.”
He seems satisfied, even offering a quick grin before heading out the door. “I’d better get to work. Don’t stay up too late. You had a big night.” My head bobs up and down while I compare what he just revealed to what he told me before about the hotel, how it’s all about providing government protection to people who need help. Now he’s describing something that sounds like it came out of a military thriller. Anonymous mercenaries working for the government? What else is he into?
Once he’s gone, I go to work removing the eighty-five hairpins from my curly updo. Maybe not exactly that many, but it feels like it. Every time I try to run my fingers through my hair, there’s a pin I missed. Even though it takes what feels like forever, it’s not enough time to quiet my confused, conflicted thoughts.
What really takes place within these walls? What could be happening right this very minute while I remove my makeup before putting on pajamas?
What am I indirectly involved with here?
At the last second, I abandon the pajama idea and pull on jeans and a hoodie instead. I won’t be able to sleep a wink unless I get another look at the eleventh floor. I can’t erase the image of that miserable, broken man from my memory. I never got to look at his face, and I don’t know why he’s here, but if anything, that only makes my curiosity that much harder to bear. I have to know. I can’t live in the lap of luxury, all expenses paid, while someone else suffers.
Creeping out into the hall, I quickly make my way to the elevator. He’ll be pissed if he finds out, but that just means he can’t find out. He’s busy working, probably trying to come up with another way to flush out his enemies, whoever they are. This won’t take me long.
Goose bumps cover my arms by the time I step out of the elevator on the eleventh floor and gaze down the hall. It looks the same as it did when I arrived here by accident, with beams of light shining from behind the doors and crisscrossing in the darkness. My heart flutters like a hummingbird, and it feels colder down here for some reason, but I force myself to move, and soon I’m in front of the same door and staring at the same man.
His greasy hair hangs in front of his face. He’s curled up in the corner with his chin tucked close to his chest like he’s trying to hide from the light. It does look very bright in there.
I’ve never seen anybody so pathetic. He doesn’t have to say a word. Just his posture and the grimy sweat stains on his white hospital gown are enough. He’s been wearing it for a long time by the looks of those stains. How long has he been here?
Before I lose my nerve, I reach out and test the handle on the door. It turns freely, and my breath catches, but there’s no turning back now. I need to know. Is this an innocent person? Is it a bad guy they captured on one of their secret missions? Even if it is, what does a person have to do to earn this kind of sentence? I briefly wonder why the door isn’t locked, only to realize there is no door handle on the inside.
“Hey,” I whisper so he doesn’t get startled, but it hardly seems like he notices I’ve entered the room. He’s that out of it. “Hey, who are you? Why are you here?”
He flinches a little, so I know he heard me, but he’s probably too afraid to speak. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I creep a little closer, one small step at a time. There’s a powerful stench rolling off him in waves—sweat, body odor, and something acrid I can’t put my finger on. Does despair have a smell?
