Scandalized

Six

A strikingly tall woman meets me in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria and seems to identify me immediately. “Georgia?” Her clipped British accent matches the severity of her coppery-red hair pulled back in a tight knot at the back of her head. “Yael Miller. This way.”

Before I can reach to shake her hand, she’s already turned and taken two long strides toward the elevator bank.

I’m uneasy about the lack of information, but not overly so. Billy knows where I am, knows who I’m meeting. He wouldn’t send me into a shady situation. And it’s obviously important if he agreed to give me a twelve-hour extension on my deadline.