I did not go to 614 for pillows.
Mom’s voice was still coming around the corner when I passed my own door and put my hand on 618. The latch gave. I slipped in and closed it with my palm so it would not click. The hall went muffled. I stood with my back on the wood and listened until her laugh moved the other way, toward the elevators, the groom saying something about extra hangers.
Roman had not turned on the overhead light.
One lamp. Jacket on a chair. Ice bucket sweating on the desk like a prop. He was at the window with his sleeves still rolled, watching the parking lot, and he did not look surprised that I had come. He looked like he had been standing there counting.
“She almost saw you,” he said.
“She saw an ice machine.”
“She saw her daughter in a hallway with no shoes.” He tur
