“Ethel! It’s me! I’m at the Capri-Whitestone.”
No one stayed at the Capri-Whitestone for pleasure. The motel was the city’s most notorious site for drugs, prostitution, and public intoxication. With Hilary Cotton it could be any of the three. Or maybe all of them at once.
“What now?” Ethel asked.
“I can’t say
“Some of those subcontractors I worked with in the overseas offices couldn’t take a hint if it came with fries and a gift certificate and stuff.” Joe chuckles, the chandeliers of the hotel’s grand meeting hall glistening on his scalp. “I know we only have three minutes, Ethel, but I could tell you some
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Ethel sat with the other wallflowers and resisted the urge to deploy poison gas against the man swaggering toward her. Reginald Ashcroft was about to ask her to dance. Again.
Her father required her to speak with him occasionally on family business, but Ashcroft never failed to humiliate her in the process.
“Don’t hitchhike over Kaelan Ridge,” growled the scruffy truck driver as he downed a coke outside the gas station. “No one ever makes it across.”
A rough laugh had escaped Daena’s lips at the old-timer’s warning. He obviously didn’t know Daena Austin.
* * *
“Ethel, we’ve got another drifter.”
A thin smile
Ethel Grieves did not do dresses, yet here she was, in a dress. A ballgown, no less. It was midnight blue which paired beautifully with her elbow-length black gloves. She refused to wear pointed high heels like the other ladies, instead sticking with her regular black boots. The left one, a special gift
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