Chapter 8 Chapter Eight

• The service corridor behind the private dining rooms always smelled of bleach and cooling metal, no matter how many flowers the front of the house displayed.
• Sylvia stood with her back against the wall, tablet tucked under one arm, and listened to the low murmur of voices still leaving the thirty-second floor. The corporate dinner had ended twenty minutes earlier. Most of the guests were gone. The servers moved in practiced silence, stacking plates and resetting the space for whatever booking came next.
• She had almost finished the closeout checklist when the door at the far end of the corridor opened.