Page 58 of Madam, May I

Desdemona glanced back at her. “There’s a robe hanging in the closet,” she explained.

Yet another surprise. Plush white robes with the monogram of the hotel were not to be found in run-down motels with musty rooms and scratchy carpets with doors leading directly to the parking lot.

She walked over to the closet and removed the robe and the folded disposable plastic bag, crossing the space to hand her both. “Put your dirty clothes in this bag to wash or to throw away. Your choice,” she said, knowing how it felt to have very little and cherish it.

Portia nodded and took both before walking over toward the open door to the bathroom. She paused. “Are you rich?” she asked, looking back at her.

Desdemona hated to lie. Even now she knew she might be setting herself up for a robbery if she wasn’t careful.More balls to juggle.“No,” she lied as she childishly crossed her fingers as if to hold off any punishment from God.

Just silly.

Portia entered the bathroom and closed the door.

Desdemona dialed Denzin’s burner phone.

“Boss,” he soon answered.

“Try to reschedule with her,” she said, walking over to the window to look out at the city.

Movement was everywhere.

“Okay.”

“Let me know the new deets so I don’t double book,” she said, turning from the frenetic view.

“Right.”

“Did she say what the emergency was?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

Sudden changes or cancellations put her on alert.

“No, but she sounded really down,” Denzin said.

She turned as the bathroom door opened. Portia extended her arm with the bag of clothes in her hand. “Okay. Keep me posted,” she said, ending the call and sliding the phone into the pocket of her mink as she crossed the room to take the bag.

“I’ll keep them,” Portia said from the ajar door.

Lord.

“Okay. I’ll bring them back clean tomorrow.”

Portia closed the door.

She fought the urge to toss the bag in the small wastepaper basket by the polished wooden desk. Holding on to the clothes was a sign she didn’t yet trust her, so throwing them away would really destroy any chance of that.

Trust is key.

She had learned that a long time ago. Broken trust had scarred her. It was the reason she hated to lie. Nothing like being deceived to detest it.

“Trust me. I got you.”

She closed her eyes and released a breath, hating the voice that suddenly replayed in her head and the memory that came along with it . . .

Desdemona paused in taking her clothes out of the backpack to look out the window at the rain pouring down on the city. The sound of it battered against the roof and windows of the laundromat.

If she hadn’t found somewhere to sit out the rain she would have been sleeping in it. Again.

Twenty-four-hour establishments were her havens since she’d run away from Zena’s house a month earlier. Emergency rooms. Train stations. Laundromats and restaurants. The secret she learned was to be clean and presentable and look like you belonged. Free lunch at school was sometimes her only meal when she couldn’t beg up enough to buy something. She washed up at sinks and did the best she could with her hair.

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