At first she thought she had a hangover. She squinted at the stark white ceiling, in particular a beautiful plaster medallion in the shape of a sunburst. A shot of unease moved through her as she realized she was not looking at the ceiling in her apartment. She sat up and glimpsed only wood floors, white bed linens, and the dark cast of evening light before fireworks exploded inside her head. Red. Gold. Bam. Pow. She sucked air through her teeth, draped her arm over her eyes, and moaned. Where am I? After a moment, her head cleared and she lowered her arm, blinked against the pale light of a bedside lamp. The room was large with an incredibly high ceiling that was trimmed in stark white dentil molding. There was a white fireplace against one wall, arched windows on the other, and an alcove beyond. For a second, Sara’s heart jumped into her throat and she wondered where she was—if she was still in New York. She turned to the windows and through the darkness saw a cut of the city skyline through the room’s corner view.
