Miami. South Beach. Back to the beginning.
She brought the car to a stop in front of an arrangement of square boxes with a red tile roofs called the Mallory Seaside Resort. She carefully applied the stage putty to her cheekbones, glued on a bulbous nose, and set a black curly wig on her head. Foundation and blush covered the latex seams, and Jackie Onassis sunglasses finished the ensemble. She looked at herself in the window’s reflection as she got out of the car. She was glamorously mysterious; no one would recognize her now. The image in the window smiled and patted a camel-colored pocket with a heavy bulge.
She threw her shoulders back and walked into the lobby. The mousy receptionist asked her a question, which was only responded to by a wave. Let the staccato of her heels tell everyone she was a woman of purpose. The receptionist reached for a phone, probably calling in a tip to the paparazzi that a celebrity had checked in. After all, what else could she be mistaken for?