Alexander kept his baseball cap pulled low, his eyes scanning the mirrors for any sign of a tail.

We checked into a small, nondescript motel near the Queensboro Bridge.

The room smelled of stale tobacco and damp carpet.

I spent the evening reviewing the floor plans of the Plaza Hotel.

I knew the layout well from my work restoring the ballroom’s gilded cornices three years ago.

I had spent weeks on scaffolding in that room, mapping every inch of the gold leaf.

Now, those same walls would host the end of my marriage.

On the night of the gala, the air in Manhattan was crisp and cold.

Fifth Avenue was clogged with black town cars and limousines.

Flashbulbs popped in the cool air as wealthy donors and politicians stepped onto the carpet.

I wore a high-collared black silk gown that I had purchased from a consignment shop.

I pinned my hair up into a tight, severe bun to alter my profile.

Inside my small beaded evening bag was the fake trust deed and the USB drive for Marcus.

I walked past the main entrance, steering clear of the photographers.