By the time we reached the suite, both of us were exhausted.
Our flight to Costa Rica was scheduled for that afternoon.
I got up first.
Packed the last toiletries.
Checked our passports.
Then decided to put Callum’s tuxedo into its garment bag so the hotel could arrange cleaning.
I had one rule about formal clothes.
Check every pocket.
Years earlier, I had sent a rental-car key through a dry cleaner and spent two miserable days fixing the problem.
“Pockets first.”
I muttered it out of habit.
Outer jacket pocket.
Empty.
Trouser pocket.
Mint.
Crumpled drink ticket.
Inside breast pocket.
My fingers touched something cold.
Small.
Metal.
I slowly pulled my hand out.
Then looked at my palm.
A tiny brass key.
A folded receipt.
And a square of cream-colored stationery.
I looked at Callum.
Still asleep.
Then back at the objects.
My heartbeat accelerated.
