Needless to say, I was confused.

I had done what Mrs. Ashworth asked. But the hotel operator mistakenly connected me to the room! And now I was freaked out. My head was spinning. It didn’t make sense! (Because when you think of Anna Brody and you think lover, you definitely don’t think of Mr. Welch.) I was smack in the middle of something sick and tawdry. I suddenly knew too much!

Oh, Mr. Welch. The great Mr. Welch. Now you’re not so great.

I carried on as best I could: “The message is . . . as follows . . .”

What did I want to say? I am so disappointed in you, Mr. Welch. You were my model of possibility. You were Bono if he were a schoolteacher in Brooklyn. You were my church.

What could I have said? The facts. How that evening at the Ashworth-Brody house, as final preparations for the following day’s house tour were finished, Anna Brody rushed around frantically trying to finish packing for a secret weekend away. But no—wait—Mr. Ashworth returned home unexpectedly and confronted her. Cue cymbal crash. Watch as the two of them have a knock-down, drag-out fight all the way up their mahogany staircase, Mr. Ashworth pleading and Mrs. Ashworth screaming. Finally, Mr. Ashworth collapses at Mrs. Ashworth’s feet, begging her to not go see her lover. Inane dialogue like “I’ll give up mine if you’ll give up yours.” Mrs. Ashworth stood strong until Mr. Ashworth broke down like a baby. He cried and cried, and Mrs. Ashworth melted at the sight of her weeping man, looking up to the heavens and crying out, “At last!” Cue cheesy piano music. It was embarrassing! It felt like something from a bad nineteenth-century novel. Yuck! It went from this sappy weep-fest to a mad, sloppy kiss, culminating with the two of them disappearing into the master bedroom, where, from the sound of things, it seemed they wouldn’t be coming out any time soon.

But no! Moments later, Mrs. Ashworth, all flushed, sweaty, and half-dressed, rushed into Sophie’s playroom, pressed a piece of paper into my hand, and told me to call the Infinity Hotel and have them relay this message to a Mr. Trammel in room 1701.

What should I have said? Grab your bag and get out of there. Mrs. Ashworth has used you.

But what did I say? What did I tell Mr. Welch, my once great, now pathetic excuse for a mentor? With the door upstairs closed, and the Ashworths in the middle of a marathon of makeup sex, with the sounds of lovemaking echoing throughout the Ashworth-Brody house, I told him the furthest thing from the truth. “Mr. Trammel,” I said. “She’s on her way.”

KATE

KATE

I WANTED TO TALK. PROCESS WHAT HAD HAPPENED. WHAT IT HAD FELT LIKE. MAYBE even do it again.