Dressed in last night's costume, I reread the note. The slash of the angular, precise letters grates on me. I crumple the card and drop it, not caring where it lands.
Downstairs, a voice calls, "Good morning."
I consider walking out the door, but a masochistic curiosity turns my feet toward the sound.
Warm brown eyes set into a heart-shaped face glance at me with professional detachment. It is the woman he whispered to last night, and with a sick certainty, I know her function.
"Can I get you anything?" she asks.
"No, I think I have everything I need."
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