Holding My Breath. AM Hartnett

       Prologue

      Molly leaned forward and watched the man’s entrance into reception. She could see the lobby from her office and the atmosphere seemed to alter as he entered. She likened it to the uncanny charge that made the hairs on your arms stand up when a storm lost its patience and was ready to unleash. She’d been watching him for about three months, and she felt it every time.

      He came in the same as always, a Ken doll fresh from his plastic cage, but not quite. No, the clean-shaven face and brown hair slicked down, the expensive suit and occasional glitter of that $3,000-dollar watch peeking from the French cuffs weren’t real.

      What made him real were his hands. Save for the manicure, he didn’t have Armani hands. His were scarred, knuckles and joints knotted, and there was a squiggling line leading from the flesh of his thumb to his wrist.

      He never tried to hide them. Nor did he now as he leaned against the front desk and folded one hand over the other. Molly had never given them more than a discreet look when she was the one to greet him, though some nights she longed to reach out and turn them over, to run her fingers over those scars, trace the lines on his palms and follow that bluish vein from his index finger to where it disappeared under those cuffs.

      ‘Good evening,’ she heard the clerk, Nick, greet him.

      ‘You too,’ the man said. ‘Can you please call up to room 435 and let them know their guest is waiting in the bar?’

      ‘Certainly, sir.’

      He could have used the courtesy phone in the seating nook alongside the front desk, but she didn’t think he’d trade this part of the routine. It was a part of the image he had created. Using the courtesy phone to call a room direct was too subtle. Announcing his arrival at the desk was sordid and suited his image.

      His swagger was pure confidence as he headed to the bar, or maybe it was arrogance. He slid the green and red tartan scarf from his neck and draped it over the coat he carried across his arm. Once in the bar, he went straight to his usual table where he could see the entrance and placed coat and scarf over the edge of a chair, then took the same seat as always.

      Here, again, another snapshot: one arm hitched over the back of his seat, long legs stretched out under the table. The waitress quickly appeared to take his order and returned with something dark. There he waited, large hand turning the tumbler round and round. He didn’t drink. He never drank. Like everything else, the drink was for show, something to show off those enigmatic hands.

      He incited hunger from the moment his companion got off the elevator. Molly had seen it happen at least three dozen times. She imagined that the short walk across the lobby to the bar would seem like miles to the woman he had come here to meet. The urge to be near him was always written all over them, and the more Molly watched, the more she understood it.

      The elevator chimed, and she watched the drama unfold.

      He never changed, but the women did. Most fell into the range of middle age, though some were younger than she was, while others had silver hair. A few dripped with diamonds and had faces pulled tight as a drum, but most came off as powerhouses in their own right. After working in hotels for the past decade and a half, Molly had grown accustomed to learning everything she needed to know about people, based on their wardrobes, demeanours and the credit cards they used.

      She’d developed