Chapter 88: Bad Press
Lizzie
Exhaustion had no distinct smell. At least not officially proven. But I could have sworn the hospital corridor smelled of bleach and exhaustion.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow over everything. I sat beside Reese on the uncomfortable plastic chairs, my hand resting lightly on his thigh. The tension radiating from his body was palpable—he was rigid, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.
Mr. Thomas, the hotel’s head of security and guest relations, stood in front of us looking every bit as drained as we felt. His suit was rumpled, and he kept his eyes trained on the floor as if it might swallow him whole.
“She never stopped coming,” he explained quietly, voice heavy with regret. “For two full weeks, Miss White came by a
