Chapter 47 - THE DEVIL'S TRAP

The brass key felt like a live wire in my pocket, burning a hole through my denim and into my thigh. I stood on the sidewalk outside the Saint Regis, the cold D.C. wind whipping at my collar, but I was sweating. The hotel was a monument to old-world elegance, gilded ceilings, silent elevators, and staff that looked like they were trained to hide bodies with a smile. It was the polar opposite of the grit I lived in, the opposite of the desert sand I still felt in my boots some nights, and I should have walked away. I should have taken that key and tossed it into the Potomac.