Chapter 9 · Guest Who Wouldn't Leave

"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart." Grant Whitfield's fingers close around my wrist, right there in the service corridor, right where the security camera over the ice machine catches everything.

"Mr. Whitfield." I pull back. He doesn't let go. "I have turndown on eleven."

"Turndown can wait." His thumb presses into the inside of my wrist like he's checking a pulse. "You were at that toast tonight. You heard what Corazon said in Tagalog. I want to know what it means."

"I don't understand Tagalog that well, sir."

"Bullshit." He says it soft, almost friendly, which is worse. "You flinched. I saw you flinch when she raised her glass. People don't flinch at words they don't understand."

My heart's going too fast for the hallway to be this quiet. Somewhere behind him a cart wheel squeaks and stops. Somebody's listening. Somebody's always listening in this hotel, that's the whole problem.

"Let go of my wrist," I say, and this time I put weight on it, the kind of weight I don't usually let myself use on a guest, because guests complain