Page 18 of Ace

Cora

I can't count the number of times I've been under the scrutiny of an entire stadium of people.

As the oldest Preston child, I was a baby when Dad ran for Senate the first time. For his second run, I was nearly seven and old enough to stand beside him, the picture-perfect image of an American family. By his third run for Senate, all of us kids were there on the stage beside him, smiling proudly for the cameras.

So being the center of attention has never been a problem for me, but my hands tremble as I produce my driver's license for the man at the door.

"Good evening, Ms. Preston," he says as he looks down at the identification.

I know he at least recognizes the last name. I'm not egotistical enough to think he knows who I am specifically, but he's a man who knows a lot of names in this neck of the woods, and my dad served as a senator for many, many years.

I keep from scrunching my nose at the thought that my dad would've come to a place like this. He avoided scandal as much as possible, considering his own daughter brought our name into the light for a lot more than my father's stance on certain political issues.

"Follow me," he says as he takes a step back into the house, allowing me access.

I don't know what I thought this place would be like, but I know I had formulated more ideas than I realized when I step inside and grow a little disappointed that it looks just like any other fancy foyer would look.

"This way," he urges toward a closed door. "You'll have to put all your personal belongings into a locker."

I blink at him when he points to a wall of lockers very similar to the ones at the country club, but it isn't the fact that he wants me to put my things in there. It's the fact that he's holding one of those security wands like TSA uses at the airport to make sure I put everything in there.

"I'm waiting for an important call," I say, holding up my cell phone.

"Everyone here is waiting for an important call, ma'am. Would you like to come back after you've received it?"

I shake my head and walk toward the bank of lockers, putting all my things in it before subjecting myself to his wand.

"This way," he says again, backing out of this room and directing me to another door. "Please have a seat while we work through your application."

I feel like I'm doing something wrong as I enter the small sitting room and take a seat on the expensive settee. I shouldn't be here. There are a million warning bells going off in my head, screaming that I should get my things and leave, but that won't get me any closer to figuring out where my sister is. I run my hands over the velvet texture of the sofa for the tactile distraction it provides before remembering exactly what this place is.

I lift my hands and wipe them down the front of my skirt, as if that simple action will cleanse them of whatever I might have contaminated them with.

I look around, not finding a hand-sanitizing station, wondering how this room would look under a black light. I saw a dateline episode reveal just how dirty hotel rooms are, even the nice ones that look clean. They closed the curtains, turned off all normal lights, and the way that room glowed under ablack light makes me want to pack my own sheets and towels when I have to stay anywhere but my own home.

I look around the room as if it will provide answers as to where Sadie went, wondering if she sat in this very same room at one point. Did she come here looking for trouble and found more than she could handle?

I know there's a good chance Sadie didn't even know about this place, that she hasn't been here, but the off chance that she might've been makes me feel a little closer to her.

The exact second tears threaten, the door opens again. Only instead of it being the man who opened the door, a young woman walks inside with a bright smile.

She's wearing a nice dress, but it's clear it's some sort of uniform. She's just too neat for it not to be.

"May I get you something to drink, Ms. Preston?"

"Good evening, Ann," I say, reading the name tag attached on the left side of her dress, knowing damn well that isn’t her real name. "I'd love a glass of champagne."

She dips her head in acknowledgment and backs right back out of the room.

I don't want a drink, and worry that they'll put something in it will keep me from actually drinking it, but it would be nice to have something to do with my hands.

It only takes a moment, as if the bar is just right around the corner, before Ann reenters, carrying a tray with not only a bubbling glass of champagne but also a small bowl of delicious-looking strawberries.

"Thank you so much," I tell her as she situates the items on the table in front of me before leaving me alone once again.

I pick up the glass but won't drink from it.

I estimate I'm in the room for fifteen minutes before the door opens again, and yet another woman walks inside.

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