"Get off me," I spit, and shove a heavy body into the bathtub.
The man slides with a wet thud. Water slaps the tiles. He groans and his designer collar blooms with suds.
"Sir?" I bark to the empty room. My voice comes out sharper than I remember. I snatch his wrist and find a pulse that is slow and soft. I roll him so his face tips toward the light.
He is pretty in a way that makes people stop noticing the rest of the suite. Too pretty. Liquor breath. Pupils wide and slow. A thin sheen of something greasy at his temple. A strip of hospital-grade tape peeks from his hairline.
"This is bad," I say aloud, because saying anything to the world is better than letting my head fill with guesses. I shove the shampoo bottle into his temple and swing.
There is a dull knock, a small spray of water. He blinks hard and tries to lift his head. His mouth makes a sound like a man surprised to be awake in someone else's life.
"You—" he mumbles. "Sofia?"
I freeze. The name shoots across the empty bathroom. I test the word on my tongue. It fits the mouth I have but not the memory attached to it.
"Not anymore," I say. My own sarcasm kicks in like a reflex. "Try again."
My hand finds a phone on the sink. The lock screen flashes a photo of a woman in an expensive dress I
