I rode the creaking elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the hall, the worn linoleum squeaking under my Italian shoes, and stopped at door 602.

My hand hovered.

My heart slammed.

For ten full minutes I stood there fighting the urge to run back to my empty money, and then I made a fist and knocked three times.

Light footsteps.

The deadbolt.

The door swung inward, and Coraline stood there in soft faded loungewear, a dish towel over her shoulder, her hair in a messy bun.

She took in the wrinkled suit, the bloodshot eyes, the trembling hands, and she did not slam the door and she did not call the police.