He fell, sprawled across the stairs, the wallet still in his hand. Izza vaulted over the railing, landed unsteadily one level below, and lurched down. Behind her, she heard the waiter stumble over Nick’s body, curse, and shout, “Thief!”

She reached the ground floor in a blur. Probably some quick and easy exit through these service hallways, but she’d just as likely lose herself in a maze of dirty linen baskets and industrial dishwashers and boilers as find the out. Better to take the way she knew led to the street, which had the only drawback of walking her past about a dozen possible concerned bystanders, not to mention hotel staff.

Nothing for it.

She emerged from the hidden door onto the second-floor patio between Fabrice’s and Escalier, purse clutched tight to her chest. Left turn down the long hallway past reception to the entrance. Don’t run. People notice when you run. Keep smooth, keep cool, chin up, proud, a young woman who just had to get her purse to buy some dumb thing from the hotel shop. Breathe. Walk. Steady.

You just promised Cat you wouldn’t steal anymore. Promised her you wouldn’t get caught. You promised, and here you are, bearing a big fat neon-pink “arrest me” sign out of a luxury hotel. Because you couldn’t let an idiot take his own fall.

Nope. Bad line of thought.

She made it halfway down the hall to the front desks, a row of them, only one staffed and that by a woman with dark circles under her eyes and a steaming mug of coffee by her hand. The receptionist did not look up from her paperwork. Good. A few more meters to the street.

Behind her a door slammed, and she heard running footsteps. No cries, not yet, of course not. No sense alarming the guests. But she walked faster. Reached the doormen, two towering guys in flower-print shirts, necklaces of carved nuts, mountains of muscle topped with that same service sector smile. She nodded to the nearest one—don’t look down, don’t look down—beyond the arch of the front gate, carriages rolled along the street, open-air wagons bearing West Claw middle-management types on an evening bar crawl. Did they call it a bar roll when people drove you from place to place? A bearded partier stood to make a toast, but tripped and spilled his beer onto the woman beside him, and everyone laughed.

Freedom.

“Stop her!” came the cry from behind.

And the doorman looked down.

Saw the purse, which by itself didn’t mean anything, and the towel, and, more important, the frayed cuffs that stuck out from under the towel, and Izza’s legs, scarred and grimed, and her ragged sandals, which no guest of the Plaza would deign to wear.

He glanced up, smile faltering, and reached for her in slow motion.