I woke to a soft knock, an empty bed, and my husband’s phone still beside me. The maid outside whispered, “Come with me. Don’t ask questions.”
The maid led me past the elevators and into a service corridor that smelled like bleach and hot metal.
My bare feet slapped against the tile in the hotel slippers she’d made me put on.
I kept looking behind us.
“Where is my husband?”
She didn’t answer.
“You said I’d understand in five minutes.”
“Four now.”
Her name tag read ANA.
She looked no older than 30, with dark hair pinned beneath a white cap and a small scar near her chin.
At the end of the corridor, she pulled a key card from her pocket and opened a door marked LINEN STORAGE.
