The Walk In

The car door opens onto the Grand Central's marble lobby, and Willow's six-inch boots hit the floor as the plug pulses once—David's signal. She walks past the front desk, past the staring bellhop, the latex dress shining under the chandeliers, the key chain cold at her throat. Marcus Webb stands near the bar, his drink forgotten, his eyes locked on her, and she feels the forgotten night stir in her body as she keeps walking toward David's table. She does not stop, does not look away, and when she reaches David, he takes her hand and pulls her down to kneel beside his chair, the whole lobby watching.