Chapter 8
The revolving glass doors of the Grand Horizon Hotel pushed outward with a soft, pneumatic hiss, releasing the trapped heat of the lobby into the cool, damp air of the late afternoon. Arthur Vance walked through the threshold first, his boots making a heavy, flat sound against the concrete sidewalk as he stepped back into a world that had forgotten him forty years ago. The city was settling into its evening routine, delivery trucks double-parked against the curb with their hazard lights blinking amber against the gathering dusk, and office workers in trench coats hurrying toward the subway entrance down the block. Eleanor followed a few paces behind, her white blazer catching the fluorescent glow of a nearby storefront sign, the crumpled, fire-damaged photograph safely tucked inside the deep pocket of her jacket. She didn't care about the bellhops watching from behind the glass, nor did she care about Marcus Davis, who was currently slumped in a leather armchair inside the concierge lounge, staring blankly at his own reflection in the darkened window. Arthur stopped near a battered green streetlamp, turning around to face her with a guarded look in his eyes—the same look a stray dog gives someone holding out a piece of bread, half-expecting a hand to pull back and strike. "You shouldn't have followed me out here, Ellie," Arthur said, his voice rasped by the cold autumn wind blowing down the avenue. "Your shoes aren't made for these streets." Eleanor looked down at her expensive Italian leather heels, splattered with a thin film of street grime from the hotel entrance, and then back up at his weathered, lined face. A small, sad smile touched the corners of her mouth, the first genuine expression she had worn all day. "My shoes can be replaced, Arthur," she replied softly, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders against the chill. "You, on the other hand, have been missing for a very long time."
