Tell No One
“The hotel was half tourist, half residential, all-around kooky. Artists, writers, students, methadone addicts of every stripe and persuasion. Black fingernails, goth-white face paint, bloodred lipstick, hair without a trace of curl—all in the days before it was mainstream.
Little had changed. It was a good place to remain anonymous.
After grabbing a slice of pizza across the street, she’d checked in and had not ventured out of her room. New York. She’d once called this city home, but this was only her second visit in the past eight years.
She missed it.
With too practiced a hand, she tucked her hair under the wig. Today’s color would be blond with dark roots. She put on a pair of wire-rim glasses and jammed the implants into her mouth. They changed the shape of her face.
Her hands were shaking.
Two airplane tickets sat on the kitchen table. Tonight, they would take British Airways Flight 174 from JFK to London’s Heathrow Airport, where her contact would meet them with new identities.
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