Then the bedroom door opened.
The footsteps were not Grayson’s.
They were his mother’s.
Lorna had a distinctive walk. Her heels struck the floor with short, impatient clicks, as if the entire world were moving too slowly for her.
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress directly above me.
The springs dipped. The wooden frame creaked.
I pressed myself against the floor, trying not to laugh or make a sound.
Then I heard a small click.
A lighter.
The smell reached me first: sharp tobacco smoke drifting beneath the bed.
Grayson had told me his mother quit smoking years ago. He’d even described the hypnotist who supposedly helped her break the habit.
For a moment, I wondered why she was smoking in a hotel bedroom.
Then she made a phone call.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “I’m in the bridal suite. Where’s your wife?”
Grayson’s voice came through the speaker.
