After we hung up, I checked on Lily again. She had kicked the blanket loose. I fixed it, then sat beside her in the dim bedroom.
There had been a time when Sarah handled nights like this. She could turn any strange room into a safe one by unpacking Lily’s pajamas, setting a glass of water by the bed, and making up stories about the city lights. After she died, I learned how many small acts held a family together. Hair ties. Allergy medicine. Favorite socks. The exact lullaby verse Lily liked repeated twice.
I had remembered the roses.
I had almost forgotten her toothbrush.
That was grief too. Not dramatic. Just a drawer in the heart where something important was always missing.
A soft knock came at the suite door.
I checked the peephole.
A man in a charcoal suit stood outside, silver hair perfectly combed, expression arranged into concern. Martin Caldwell had the kind of face that looked sincere in photographs.
I opened the door only halfway.
“Mr. Vance,” he said warmly. “I just heard there was confusion at check-in. I came personally to apologize.”
“Lily is sleeping.”
“Of course.” He lowered his voice immediately. “I won’t take much of your time.”
I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door almost closed behind me.
Caldwell extended a hand. I shook it. His palm was dry and steady.
“What happened downstairs was unacceptable,” he said. “I assure you, Patricia is normally one of our most reliable team members.”
“And Karla?”
His smile tightened slightly. “Karla is still developing.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I’ll address it first thing in the morning.”
“Why not tonight?”
He glanced at the closed suite door. “I assumed you would prefer discretion.”
I studied him.
Discretion was often a useful word. It could mean respect. It could also mean burial.
“I prefer accuracy,” I said.
“Then accurately, your reservation should have appeared immediately. I’ll have IT review the sync issue.”
“It appeared when Lupita suggested the secondary corporate screen.”
“Yes, she mentioned that.”