More like a fib. She also told him she was a lobbyist for the Nature Conservancy, and that was a lie. She didn't know why she'd said it, maybe because that's what she wished she were. That's what she would be, one of these days. But the clerk certainly remembered their conversations because when he saw her he always called her Ms. Greer, he always asked how her lobbying was going, and then he'd hand her the key to her room, always the same room, 1722. He knew not to bother to call a bellhop; she had made it clear that she preferred to carry her small overnight bag herself. The only question he ever asked was, "Early or late checkout?" and after she told him she'd smile to show she was very satisfied with the service, then head straight for the bank of elevators that went to the seventeenth floor. All she'd have to do after that was wait for the love of her life to arrive. She always arrived on time, she was never late. So maybe they'd realize that something was wrong; maybe they'd come looking for her.

Another ssssstttt. Another flash of light. He was far from her now, the blond man. He was guarding that door all the way to the left, and she'd moved maybe fifteen feet closer to the driveway. She could make it. He was looking around, he didn't see her, but she could see he was wearing a khaki suit with an open-necked blue shirt, and now she thought: I can do it. I can make it. He's not even looking in my direction and, okay, I see the clearing, I see the door. As soon as the match goes out, just run like hell. I can make it…

The match went out and she took off.

She banged her knee into the corner of a car-the darkness was dis-orienting, but that didn't really slow her down. She was hauling ass and there was no way he was going to get her. She didn't even hear footsteps; he wasn't even trying. He knew it was impossible, knew that he'd lost, and she reached the door, grabbed for the doorknob and started to turn it, started to yank the door open and yes, there was the crack of sunlight, she had made it…