Chapter 8 The Hotel Room
Joan stood numb on the cold stone floor of the entry hall. Reiner’s final question still echoed in her mind. He had asked whether she had lied about losing their baby—whether she had ended their child’s life without telling him.
The silence pressed around them like smoke. Reiner remained at the window with his back to her, his jaw locked and his hands buried in his pockets.
"I can't be in this room with you right now," Joan said. Her voice sounded thin, like a whisper carried off by the wind.
Reiner didn't turn around. He didn't tell her to stay. He just stared out at the twinkling lights of Manhattan. "Security will have a car waiting downstairs to take you to the Grand Hyatt, Joan. Just until the board reviews the company accounts tomorrow."
It was a punishment. He was kicking her out of her own home. But as Joan looked at his rigid back, she realized something worse: her husband had already given up on her. He had taken the easiest lie because it was simpler than dealing with their broken hearts.
Joan collected her handbag and coat and left without another word. The mahogany door closed behind her with the finality of a verdict.
Down on the street, the night air was freezing. Rain had started to fall, turning the pavement into slick black glass. Joan ignored the company driver waiting by the black sedan. She couldn't get into a car Reiner had ordered. Instead, she raised her hand and hailed a yellow taxi.
She wanted no part of a luxury hotel, but the moment she settled into the taxi, her phone buzzed inside her coat pocket.
It was a text message from Graham Voss.
Joan, I need to see you right now, the text read.
I tracked down the bank details for that fake company transfer.
It wasn't you, and it wasn't a stranger.
The account belongs to an old shell company Annabelle registered three years ago in Delaware.
Meet me at the Loft Midtown Hotel, Suite 402. I have the paper trail.
Joan’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was it. This was the proof she needed to show Reiner that Annabelle was framing her. If she had the banking records, Reiner would have to admit he was wrong. He would see that her sisters were destroying their lives on purpose.
"Change of destination," Joan told the taxi driver, her voice tight. "Take me to the Loft Midtown Hotel on 44th Street."
Thirty minutes earlier, in the dimly lit lounge of the Loft Midtown Hotel, Macey Bellamy sat at a corner table.
She was wearing a long camel-colored trench coat and a dark silk scarf—almost identical to the outfit Joan usually wore when she visited the boutique hotel. Macey watched Graham Voss sit alone at a table near the bar, looking through papers on his tablet.
Macey smiled and touched the small vial in her pocket. Joan had recovered the prescription bottle from the guest room, but Macey had already hidden several tablets. Annabelle had told her exactly how to use them.
Macey stood up, smoothing her dress, and walked past Graham’s table. As she passed, she deliberately bumped into the waiter carrying Graham’s fresh glass of sparkling water.
"Oh. I am so sorry." Macey gasped, using her twin sister's higher, softer tone of voice.
"It's fine, no harm done," Graham said, turning around to check his jacket.
While Graham checked his jacket, Macey tipped three crushed tablets into his glass. They vanished into the fizz.
"Let me get the waiter to bring you another," Macey offered sweetly, keeping her face shadowed under her wide-brimmed hat.
"No need, it didn't spill," Graham said politely, stepping back. He picked up the glass and took a long drink.
Macey watched him swallow, satisfaction flickering across her face. "Have a good evening, then." She turned toward the elevators.
Within fifteen minutes, the medication took hold. Graham’s vision blurred, his limbs grew leaden, and he stumbled from his chair with one hand locked around the edge of the bar.
A hotel bellhop hurried over. "Sir? Are you alright?"
"I... I have a suite booked," Graham muttered, his speech thick and slurred. "Suite 402. Need to sit down..."
"Let me help you, Mr. Voss," the bellhop said, supporting Graham’s weight as they moved toward the elevator.
Macey was waiting inside Suite 402. Annabelle had used the operational access Reiner granted her to obtain a duplicate keycard under the pretense of a VIP security check, and she had booked adjoining Suite 404 as an escape route.
When the bellhop helped Graham onto the bed, Macey showed him the suite key, introduced herself as Graham’s partner, and claimed he had mixed medication with alcohol.
She refused an ambulance, promised to watch him, and pressed fifty dollars into the worker’s hand until he reluctantly left.
Once the door closed, Macey took Graham’s still-unlocked phone, sent Joan the message summoning her to Suite 402, deleted the sent copy, and slipped the device into her coat pocket so Reiner could not inspect it.
She unbuttoned Graham’s suit jacket and tossed it on a chair.
She placed Joan’s spare silk scarf and pearl earrings on the bedside table, ordered champagne and strawberries under Joan’s name through the hotel app, and pressed a smear of Joan’s lipstick onto one glass.
Then she spilled champagne on the carpet and left a forged message on the room tablet: Leave the door unlocked. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.
She photographed the staged nightstand and sent the image to Reiner from Annabelle’s phone. Joan’s scarf and earrings lay beside Graham’s watch and the lipstick-marked glass, with Graham visible on the bed behind them.
Reiner, we are so sorry, the accompanying text read. We followed Joan to make sure she was safe after she left the penthouse. Graham had already booked the suite, and Joan came straight here. Room service is under her name. Please don’t come. It will only hurt you more.
Macey knew Reiner’s pride. She knew that telling him not to come was the fastest way to make sure he rushed over immediately.
She unlocked the main door, crossed through the connecting doorway into Suite 404, and waited there until Reiner reached the fourth floor. Then she joined him in the corridor as though she had arrived from the elevator.
When Joan stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, the hallway was quiet. She walked quickly to Suite 402 and knocked on the wood door.
"Graham?" she called. "It's Joan. I'm here."
There was no answer. She tried the door handle. To her surprise, it clicked open. Someone had deliberately left the suite unlocked.
"Graham?" Joan pushed the door open and stepped into the warm entryway.
The scent of spilled champagne hit her immediately. She walked into the bedroom and gasped.
Graham was lying flat on his back across the king-sized bed. His necktie was loosened, his eyes were half-closed, and he was breathing heavily, mumbling words that made no sense.
"Graham." Joan rushed to the side of the bed. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Graham, wake up! What happened to you?"
"Joan...?" Graham slurred, his eyes rolling back. "The papers... the shell company... so tired..."
Joan looked at his face, then at his pale skin and sweat-beaded forehead. This wasn't drunkenness. Something was terribly wrong with him. She looked at the nightstand and froze.
Sitting right next to a half-empty champagne glass were her silk scarf and her pearl earrings—items she hadn't worn in weeks. Items that had been in her closet at home.
Joan’s stomach turned.
It was another setup.
"Oh no," Joan breathed, pulling out her phone with shaking hands. She didn't call Reiner. She dialed 911. "I need an ambulance at the Loft Midtown Hotel, Suite 402. A man is unresponsive. I think he's been poisoned or drugged."
She was still on the line with the emergency operator when the heavy wooden front door of the suite slammed open.
Joan spun around.
Reiner stood in the doorway. His coat was damp from the rain, his jaw was set like iron, and his face was pale. Behind him stood Macey, looking tearful and worried, holding a tissue to her neck.
Reiner entered the bedroom and absorbed the scene at once: Graham on the bed, an open bottle of champagne, two glasses, Joan’s lipstick and jewelry, and the message glowing on the room tablet.
Graham looked drugged or dangerously intoxicated, but Reiner chose the explanation already waiting for him—that Joan had spent hours drinking with Graham.
"Reiner," Joan said, her voice trembling as she ended the emergency call. "Listen to me. Graham has been drugged. I just called an ambulance—"
"Stop it, Joan." Reiner’s voice was flat and lifeless. "Just stop talking."
"I am telling you the truth." Joan stepped toward him, holding her hands out. "Look at him. He can barely speak! Macey and Annabelle put my things here before I arrived. They set this up."
Reiner didn't look at Graham. He looked down at the pearl earrings on the nightstand. They were the same earrings he had bought Joan for their tenth anniversary.
"I didn't want to believe it," Reiner whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Even with the messages... even with the bank transfer... I wanted to give you a chance to explain. But you came straight from our home to his hotel room."
"He found the proof that Annabelle stole the money." Joan cried out, tears burning her eyes. "He texted me thirty minutes ago. Check my phone. His phone should prove it too."
Joan searched the bed and nightstand. Graham’s phone was gone. The absence hit her almost as hard as the planted jewelry.
"Joan, please stop lying," Macey sobbed from the doorway as she moved closer to Reiner. "We followed you after you left the penthouse. Graham was already waiting here, and room service says the order was placed under your name."
"You evil snake." Joan yelled, pointing a shaking finger at her sister. "You stole my medicine from our bathroom and used it on him!"