Maya glanced toward the lobby. She could already picture Linda sweeping in beneath the chandelier, complaining about the wine stain as though Maya had chosen it, asking for the best table, telling staff the Mercers had been coming here for years.

“No,” Maya said. “Not through the lobby.”

The guard took her through the executive entrance on the east side, into a quieter corridor where the air smelled faintly of citrus polish and sea breeze from the vents.

Helen, the resort manager, was waiting with a tablet pressed against her chest, professional but visibly holding down panic.

“I’m so sorry,” Helen said. “We didn’t know they were your guests.”

“They aren’t my guests,” Maya replied. “They’re customers.”