"Five hundred dollars," Whitley said. "Sign this, and everybody can walk away with something."
Odessa read the page once. She looked up. "It says Marcus took my money."
"It says there was a dispute involving guest funds. The details have already been documented."
"You want me to sign a lie."
"I want you to behave sensibly. Five hundred is a great deal of money for somebody who came here counting bills."
Marcus took a breath. "Mr. Whitley, stop."
The manager turned toward him sharply. "You don't work here. You don't get to tell me anything about my lobby."
Odessa folded the form and slid it back across the counter. "I don't sign lies, Mr. Whitley. Not for any price."
He snatched it away and reached for his wallet. The movement was so abrupt that Paige flinched. Whitley withdrew a hundred-dollar bill, flattened it against the marble, and pushed it toward Odessa with one finger.
"Keep the change," he said. "Buy a new coat."
Odessa looked at the money without touching it. The Wexley's lobby was filled with things purchased to make wealth visible, from the marble to the flowers to the polished grand piano. Yet this single banknote, offered with contempt, seemed to her the least valuable thing in the entire room.
"Keep it, Mr. Whitley," she said. "You'll need it more than I will."
Several people stopped pretending not to listen. Charles Hart shifted his weight, and Marcus saw the expression on his face change from discomfort to something harder. A guest near the luggage stand quietly took out her phone, then lowered it when Paige asked her not to record other guests without consent.
Whitley gave a brittle laugh. "Me? I'm about to become regional director. Do you know who's coming through that door tomorrow morning?"
"Tell me," Odessa said.
"The chairwoman of the Wexley Group. Ten o'clock. Black car, driver, full inspection. By noon, I'll be in charge of more hotels than you could afford to visit. And neither of you will be anywhere near this lobby."
Odessa picked up her overnight bag. Marcus moved to take it, and she let him. For a moment she seemed about to say something else, but she looked at Paige and Brett standing near the elevators and chose silence instead. She did not want to reveal her identity before they had been given an opportunity to decide whether to tell the truth independently.
"Friday at ten," Odessa said. "I'll be right here."
"Bring a mop next time," Whitley called after her.
They crossed the lobby without hurrying. Marcus held the heavy door while Odessa stepped beneath the awning, where rain descended in silver sheets. She turned and looked back through the glass. Paige stood behind the counter with both hands pressed flat against the surface, and Charles Hart was still watching Whitley with an expression that promised the manager would not enjoy their next conversation.