She’d moved after that, subletting an apartment from a friend so her name wasn’t attached to an address. The letters came to the galleries instead. Rainy would get calls saying a letter had arrived for her. It wasn’t completely unheard of to receive correspondence through a gallery, thank God. Rainy would take a cab to go pick them up and carry them home unopened.

To prep herself to read them, she’d get very, very drunk. Most of them said the same thing: Taured marveling over her accomplishments, Taured saying he prayed for her, Taured saying he hoped to one day see her again. He ended the letters with: Till He returns, Taured.

She’d only started thinking about getting out of New York when she met Grant, flirting with the possibilities of a move to the Caribbean or perhaps Europe. The farther away, the better, and her art provided enough money for her to live well.

Grant had changed the course of her life, luring her to cold, rainy Washington instead. It had all happened so fast. And why? Because he loved her art? She had plenty of people who fawned over her, calling her gifted. But what mattered to Rainy was the way Grant accepted her for who she was in the moment.

Now, she stood in front of the room, her hand held to the door as if she were feeling for a heartbeat. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she slid the keycard into the slot, and a second later, the lock opened with a satisfying click. Was he here, somewhere just out of sight, watching her? You are so fucking stupid, she thought before pushing the door open and walking inside. Rainy stood, staring around at the empty room and contemplating the man who called himself Paul. He worked here. The room faced the service alley that ran alongside the hotel, a bleak stretch of tar bordered by a parking lot. She doubted these rooms were used by guests unless it was an emergency. To prove it, she walked over to the minibar and cracked open the door to the fridge. It was bare inside and smelled funny.