The heat of the lobby hit me first, a thick wave of air carrying the scent of roasted garlic and melted butter. The low hum of twenty different conversations drifted from the dining room behind a partition of dark oak.
A young woman in a black blazer stood behind the podium, holding a stack of leather-bound menus against her chest.
“Good evening, welcome to The Gilded Lantern,” she said, her smile fading slightly as she looked at my face.
I reached up and touched my cheek, finding it wet. I had not realized I was crying until the warm air touched my skin, making the cold wind on my neck feel even sharper.
“I have a reservation,” I said, my voice shaking more than I wanted it to, though I tried to steady my breathing. “Under the name Miller.”
The hostess tapped her finger against her computer screen, her eyes darting back to mine with a quiet, professional sympathy.
