that security guard just say to Harper?”
“Blair…?” Eleanor’s voice was barely a whisper now, stripped entirely of its theatrical superiority. She sounded fragile, incredibly old, and terrified. “You… you own this hotel? That’s fundamentally impossible. You were working night shifts in motels… you were living in a damp cellar on Fourth Street…”
“I worked those graveyard shifts so I could learn exactly how the service pipes ran, Eleanor,” I said, stepping smoothly past Harper. My shoulder brushed against the crimson silk of her gown; she shrank away from my