“If you’re looking for my dinner companion, she’s in the ladies room,” I offered.
“This is for Miss Sinclair.”
“Oh? That’s me.” He nodded as I reached for the envelope. “Thank you.”
He nodded again and left me alone to read the disturbing contents of the message:
At the end of your meal, once your dinner companion has left, descend the backstairs of the restaurant and enter the restroom there. Remove your clothes, turn out the lights and lean against the wall, palms stretched high above your head, your legs wide apart. Leave the door unlocked and wait.
No. No, no, no, my frantic mind began to pace like a caged animal. I glanced toward Ellington Lloyd across the room, seeing him, as if in slow motion, still gesturing broadly, still deep into negotiations with the other parties at the
