Fiona unbuttoned her damp jacket, letting it drop over the arm of a velvet lounge chair before sliding her sneakers off her feet. Slowly she moved her steps, unzipping her jeans, stepped out of them, and peeled off her rain-soaked socks.
She gathered a fresh change of clothes from her bag and unlatched the heavy, frosted-glass door of the en-suite bathroom.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of polished Italian marble and brushed brass. Massive double vanity topped with quartz counter-tops stretched along one wall, beneath two oversized illuminated mirrors.
In the center sat a deep soaking tub, while opposite it was a massive walk-in rainfall shower enclosed in frameless glass, equipped with body jets and a polished slate bench.
Fiona turned the brass dial, and within seconds, a steady stream of hot water hissed from the rain head. Thick, scented steam began to billow through the open door, carrying the light aroma of eucalyptus and cedar into the suite. She stepped under the hot spray, resting her palms against the warm marble tiles as the heat melted the lingering chill out of her muscles.
The cascading water washed away the grit of the night, bringing a sudden, quiet wave of relief.
Standing under the stream, her mind began to have flashback through the evening's chaos—the violent fight on the quad, the blinding sirens, the trooper's sharp interrogation, and the fact that she had to use a bit of necromancy ability to construct an humanoid to serve as a decoy.
Then, all at once, Fiona froze. The water ran over her slicked-back hair, but her eyes snapped wide open.
Without turning off the shower, she grabbed a thick white bath towel, wrapped it tightly around her chest, and poked her head through the foggy bathroom doorway, her wet hair dripping onto the marble floor.
"Hey," Fiona called out, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the suite.
"Look at the layout. There are six poster beds in this suite... but there are only five of us in here. Who was the sixth bed reserved for?"
Claire and Rein looked up from their bed, blinking in sudden realization. Lira stopped untying her boots, her hands freezing mid-knot along with
Holly's eyes wide on the sectional sofa, and she let out a loud, sharp cuss. "Damn it! We forgot Molly!"
A wave of panic hit the room. In the frantic rush to pack, dodge police at the checkpoints, and clear out before the midnight hard lockdown, Molly—who was currently in a deep state of slumber—had been completely overlooked.
She was still lying tucked away on the top bunk bed back in Lira's dorm room, totally alone on an evacuated campus now crawling with state troopers and containment teams.
Meanwhile, on the dimly lit carpeted hallway leading toward the southern corridor of the hotel, Damon and Ryan walked side-by-side toward the staff quarters.
Damon moved with smooth, effortless grace, his hands resting lightly in the pockets of his navy waistcoat. Ryan walked beside him, his hands shoved into his jacket, his key card tucked into his collar.
"If you're going to play the part of a night attendant, Ryan, you need to refine your approach," Damon advised smoothly, his voice faded into a quiet command.
"You carry yourself like a runaway expecting to be caught which honestly is obviously. A good bellhop moves with a warm, welcoming presence. Smile, offer assistance before a guest asks, and keep your composure—no matter how bizarre the guest or the hour might be."
Ryan let out a quiet giggle, shaking his head. "So, basically... pretend I'm thrilled to be hauling heavy suitcases at one in the morning with no personal feelings involved huh?"
"Precisely," Damon replied with a subtle smirk as they reached the heavy wooden door of the southern attendant suite.
"Master the art of pleasant hospitality, and you'll find the guests are remarkably generous. Whatever tips you gather from the floor tonight, you keep. Consider it an added incentive for keeping your eyes open."
Ryan looked down at the black keycard in his hand, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Fair enough. Just don't expect me to bow like the guy downstairs."
Damon let out a chuckle at Ryan's remark, stopping in front of a heavy door marked with a silver Staff Quarters plate. He tapped his keycard against the reader, unlocking the room to reveal a neat, minimalist suite furnished with a single bed and a fresh, gold-trimmed attendant uniform hanging on a wooden valet rack.
"Your post is set, Ryan," Damon said softly, gesturing toward the uniform. "Get changed. I have a few high-value guests on the floor who require my personal attention." With a crisp nod, Damon turned on his heel and disappeared down the carpeted corridor.
Back in the penthouse suite, total panic had taken hold.
"We have to go back right now," Fiona said, her voice was filled with urgency as she grabbed her jacket. "Molly is the entire reason we're caught in this mess to begin with. If the containment teams sweep the dorms and find her in hibernation, it's instant jail !"
Claire was already reaching for the keys on the marble counter when a sharp, unexpected knock rattled the double mahogany doors.
Expecting a late-night room service attendant delivering the dinner order, Claire called out, "It's open! Come in!"
The door swung inward—and the entire room froze.
Standing in the doorway was Molly. Her hair was a tangled, disheveled mess, her jacket was stained with rainwater, and her dark mascara was smeared across her pale cheeks from crying. She looked exhausted, trembling like a leaf as she stepped into the warm glow of the suite.
"Molly?!" Holly gasped, nearly leaping off the sofa.
The girls swarmed around her, pulling her inside and shutting the door tight. A barrage of frantic questions erupted instantly.
"How did you get out of the university?" Claire asked, her eyes wide.
"The campus is locked down by state troopers!"
"And how on earth did you find the Huntington Center?" Fiona added, completely stunned.
"We didn't even leave a message!"
Molly stood in the center of the foyer, her hands shaking violently as she looked at them.
"I... I woke up," she stammered, her voice filled with sincerity. "My mind felt heavy, like it was being pulled by some force straight toward this building. But... but something was wrong with me."
She looked down at her damp, trembling hands as tears welled in her eyes again. "I walked right past the troopers at the main gate. I ran right through the police tape... and no one stopped me. Every time I moved, it was as if no one could see me. I tried to talk to a security guard on the street, I waved my hands in his face, and he just walked right past where I was standing! I... I thought I was dead! I thought I was a ghost!"
She broke down into heavy, sobbing tears, burying her face in her hands.
Claire quickly stepped forward, pulling the crying girl into a tight, firm hug. "You're not a ghost, Molly. You're as real as anything can be."
As the realization settled in that Molly was alive, unharmed, and somehow back with the group, the heavy, suffocating dread that had hung over the penthouse finally began to thaw.
The following morning at the local clinic, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, gray dawn.
In the high-security ward on the second floor, Detective Quive lay in a private hospital room, the continuous beep of a heart monitor echoing against the walls. His head was wrapped in heavy medical gauze covering his ruined left eye, his skin pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.
The door handle clicked.
Bill stepped into the room, dressed in white surgical scrubs with a stethoscope draped casually over his broad shoulders. Adjusting his hair and gait, he pulled a medical clipboard from the wall slot, stepping closer to Quive's bed under the perfect guise of an attending physician.