“You don’t get to where I am without dreaming of impossible things,” he says.
He smiles a little when he says this. A tilt of his lip, like he’s letting me in on some universal truth. All it sounds like is he’s trying too hard to be clever, and it’s totally not working for me.
“I’m sorry about before,” he says. “In the restaurant. I was afraid, you know, and my anger got the best of me.”
I wave it off. I’m sure he takes it to mean that I don’t mind. The truth is, he showed me exactly who he is.
“Have you considered my offer?” he asks.
“Haven’t really had the time, what with everything that’s going on.”
He tugs on the beads on his wrist and says, “You have to understand, we can help you.”
Right. Help. I wonder if he’ll even remember my name after this is over. I pat the wall and ask, “Why are you fixated on this spot?”
“Because this is where the clues pointed,” he says.
“What clues?”
“The ones left by Simms.”
“Simms is Unstuck. She’s lying in a bed, dead to the world. What is she telling you?” He doesn’t answer that, which annoys me, so I square to him and ask again. “Where are you getting this intel? Because maybe if you were to just—I don’t know, tell me?—maybe I could shed some light on this. You’re the one who’s desperate for information. I can’t help you unless you give me something, okay?”
“I’m still not entirely sure where your loyalties lie.”
I clap my hands to my face and press my cheeks. “God with this bullshit. I’m tired of people wondering about my loyalties. I’m loyal to doing my job and not dying. How about that?”
“I asked for the chef to be fired,” he says. “The one who almost killed me. Management refused.”
“Well, you were being a baby,” I say.
He gives a little shrug and heads for the elevator bank. After he’s gone I stand in the hallway for long enough that the elevator closes and opens a few more times, people coming from and going to their rooms. Headed out seeking drinks, coming back with heads full of them. I just stand there. Thinking. Because there’s something he said before. Something maybe I didn’t consider in the broader picture.
I hustle back toward my room, find Ruby hovering just out of view.
“Anything to add?” I ask.
“Nothing of note, but I recorded the conversation. I’ll be recording all conversations going forward.”
“You don’t do that already?”
“Not unless I believe they’re important.”
Once inside I go looking for the red marker, uncap it, then under the list of names, add Simms, Fairbanks.
He said it earlier. That Fairbanks built the hotel but Simms may have consulted.
Fairbanks, missing. Simms, Unstuck.
Those things did happen around the same time.
“There was a book written about Simms, right? Using her notes? Can you scan that? Anything in there?”
“Yes, there is a relevant portion, and it was derived from a video. Would you prefer to watch that?”
“Television,” I tell it, and fall into the chair.
The TV winks on and the video starts playing immediately. It’s Simms, doing an interview with a goofy white guy in a sharp suit who is trying desperately to sound as smart as she is. She’s wearing a yellow sundress, along with plastic-framed glasses and Converse sneakers, both of which match her dress.
GOOFY WHITE GUY: So you’ve been consulting on the design of the Paradox Hotel, correct?
SIMMS: I’ve always admired Melody Fairbanks’s work. The design of the new Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City is incredible. I met her at the groundbreaking and we had a lot of good conversations about the hotel. About the nature of time.
GOOFY WHITE GUY: And tell me, what does time look like to you?
Simms smiles. Takes a breath.
SIMMS: To be clear, there’s so much about time we don’t understand. I know everyone likes calling it the “block model.” I prefer to call it “eternalism.” (Simms winks.) It sounds a little nicer.
GOOFY WHITE GUY: The block model, or eternalism, says that the past and the future have already happened. If the future is there, why can’t we go there?
SIMMS: I know what I had for dinner last night but I don’t know what I’m having for dinner tomorrow. Right now I could say I’m probably having pizza, but by the time we get there, maybe I’ll order sushi. Was I always going to have sushi, or was it undetermined until I opened up the app to place my order? It’s something I’m working on.
GOOFY WHITE GUY: Does that mean there’s no such thing as free will?
Simms smiles again. This smile, though, seems a little tighter. A little less easy than the previous smile.
SIMMS: I’ll leave that one for the people who are smarter than me to figure out.
“Anything else in there that seems relevant?” I ask.
“I do not believe so,” Ruby says.
“Who was around during construction?”
“A few staffers have been here since before opening, but I suspect that Cameo might be useful to you in this instance.”
“Why?”
“Cameo likes to gossip.”
The other problems suddenly seem a bit less important. “Let’s go find them.”
* * *
—
Cameo is the only employee who maintains a room in the hotel besides me. The housing options around here suck, so I don’t blame them. They live on the far end of the first floor, close enough to the concierge desk that they can get there quickly if something happens. There are people to handle nights and weekends, but Cameo, to their mind, runs the show and, to my mind, knows more than anyone else how this place is put together.
They’ve always been valuable and I’ve always tried to be less of an asshole with them. Not that I’ve been great about it.
See also: our conversation outside earlier today.
So it’s with a touch of trepidation that I knock on their door, and when they answer, towering over me, in a bathrobe and sweatpants, I know this won’t be the most fun conversation. Because what I see on their face is a bit of hope, like maybe I’ve come around to sharing my feelings.
But I’m not here for that.
“To what do I owe you darkening my doorstep?” they ask, stepping aside to let me in the room.
I’ve never been in here before. It’s cozy. Painted, for one, a soft sea green. The carpeting is a complementary forest green. The bed frame is brass, ornate. The bathroom hasn’t been altered, but it feels more lived-in. It feels like a proper apartment, even though, like mine, it’s the smallest room model. There’s even a hotplate set up above the minifridge. Cameo points me toward the far end of the room, to two handsome wingback chairs facing each other next to the window, a tree stump table between them.
“Tea?” they ask.
“Actually, yes.”
“Oolong?”
“That works.”
“Ruby, would you like something?” Cameo asks. “Perhaps a touch of motor oil?”