“It was left at the front desk with instructions to deliver it directly to your room at four o’clock,” Mr. Harper said.
I walked over to the desk, my fingers hovering over the cool wood of the box.
It was a music box, old-fashioned and heavy, the brass hinges slightly tarnished.
“Who brought this?” I asked, looking up at him. “Did my father send this from Bangor?”
Mr. Harper did not answer immediately.
He looked at the window, where the afternoon sun was beginning to slant across the floor.
“Your father did not pay for this room, Mrs. Miller,” he said.
The air in the suite suddenly felt twenty degrees colder.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice rising. “My father booked this three days ago. He gave me the confirmation number.”
“Mr. Vance made the phone call,” Mr. Harper said, his tone remaining quiet and formal. “But the credit card on file belongs to someone else.”
