The irony was not lost on Whitney. A graduate of the #1 journalism school in the country was covering a social event, instead of tracking down corporations dumping toxic waste into the Delaware River or ambushing deadbeat landlords saddling their tenants with broken heaters.

　　Whitney Lewis couldn't believe she was filing her story in a bathroom. She was a Magna Cum Laude graduate of Emerson College, for goodness' sake.

　　In her evening gown with her laptop perched on her knees and her heels discarded next to her, she wrote about who'd attended the Philadelphia Arts Center Gala with whom, as if it mattered to anyone. Well, it must have mattered to someone, or her father wouldn't have relegated her to the gossip department, instead of the hard news department.

　　She sighed as someone entered the bathroom, but she didn't look up. If she filed the story now, she could go home and sleep. Another woman entered and went right into the stall next to the first woman. At least the bathroom in this four-star hotel had a comfortable couch on which Whitney could write her tale of the one-percenters of Philadelphia.

　　“Hey, Janice. Is that you?" the second woman said.

　　“Hey, Kendra. What's up?" asked the first woman.

　　“Did you see that dress Agostina wore? Did she forget she hasn't lost her baby weight yet?"

　　“My God. Yes. Doesn't she have a mirror at home?"

　　Whitney refocused her attention on the words on the page. Five column inches, her father had said. Five column inches, which would be cut if any of the City of Brotherly Love's elite who hadn't attended the gala had a hangnail—or worse, wore last year's Prada to a restaurant opening.

　　She shuddered, then her ears perked up.

　　“Grotesque?" Janice-or-Kendra asked. Whitney had lost track of who was in which stall. One of them flushed, then the other.

　　This was truly the hard-hitting journalism she'd expected to cover with her degree. Her father had said she needed to work her way up, just like everyone else in his newspaper.

　　Presumably, Janet came out and washed her hands. She moved closer to her friend. “It's a pop-up nightclub."

　　“Grotesque? What kind of name is that?"

　　“Something to do with gargoyles. Maybe they have them as decorations," Janet said.

　　Whitney froze. A pop-up nightclub? That couldn't be legal. She smelled a story. A good one.

　　They must have forgotten she was there. The door was on the opposite wall. They probably hadn't even noticed her.

　　“Where is this nightclub?" Kendra asked, applying lipstick.

　　The women were single and young and would know all the hip places in the city. Kendra would bet all sorts of illegal activity took place at a nightclub that probably hadn't been sanctioned by anyone in the government. This could be her break. This could cross her over to the hard news desk.

　　“I don't know. It's an exclusive guest list. We'll have to make nice with Agostina. She gets a text with the coordinates of the place."

　　“That seems odd," Kendra said, tucking away her makeup into her Kate Spade purse.

　　It chafed at Whitney that she even knew who Kate Spade was. She'd gone to the best journalism school in the country. Why was she hiding in a bathroom and listening to a conversation about a nightclub?

　　“It's like those raves in the '90s—instead of in a warehouse, it's usually set up on a roof."

　　“Why a roof?"

　　Something niggled at Whitney. Roof … grotesque. She searched her memory of the one architecture class she'd taken in college. Grotesques were ornamental gargoyles. They didn't serve any purpose. They'd been put on old churches in Europe to scare the parishioners, while actual gargoyles were drains for rain water on the roof.

　　Is that why they called it Grotesque? Because it was on the roof?

　　“Why is Agostina on their guest list? She's been married for five years. I can't imagine she still goes to nightclubs."

　　Kendra snorted. “Who knows? But she is on the guest list, and I think she mentioned she was going somewhere after this."

　　Kendra and Janet exchanged a look. “Is it really that cool, if Agostina is involved?" Janet asked.

　　Whitney hoped Agostina didn't think Kendra and Janet were her friends. The two ladies chattered as they left the bathroom. Whitney sent in her story, then shut down her laptop. If this nightclub was a hot spot, then her father would be happy she dug up the story. If it housed illegal activity, then Whitney would be happy writing the story.

　　With her laptop tucked into her bag and her lipstick freshened, she strode out of the bathroom. A few people milled about, but she didn't see Kendra, nor Janet. More importantly, she didn't see Agostina. Had she left?

　　While she formulated a reason to speak with the woman, Whitney searched the banquet hall. Tuxedoed waiters cleared tables. How long had she been in the bathroom?

　　Back in the hallway, she searched for any of the women. One of them would lead her to the woman who could boost Whitney's credibility with the newspaper staff—and her father.

　　In front of the lavish hotel, red-jacketed valets delivered cars worth six figures to partygoers for their rides out of Center City.

　　With a twenty in her hand, she approached a valet. She flashed a flirty smile. “Hi."

　　“Hi," the young man said.

　　“Could you tell me if Agostina Reynolds left yet?"

　　“What kind of car did she drive?"

　　“No idea."

　　“Well, I have no idea who she is, ma'am."

　　Whitney gave him the twenty. His lack of knowledge about socialites had collided with her lack of knowledge about cars. “Thank you, anyway."

　　***

　　Deke Turner stretched his aching back and wondered why he kept running this pop-up nightclub gig. He had a pension from the government, plus what he'd saved while he'd been in the Marines. He could move to a cheaper part of Pennsylvania and live out his days comfortably.

　　The alcohol was packed up in the truck down the street, but the chairs and tables needed to be moved. It had sounded like a fun lark when Trent Mulligan, his best friend, had suggested it, but after packing up and unpacking this bar once a month for a year, he wasn't so enamored with the idea anymore. “I'm getting too old for this."

　　Trent laughed. “You're only a few years older than I am."

　　“Yeah, but I had to go through Marines Boot Camp, not Army Basic Training. I've already had a toll taken on my body."

　　“No, those one-night stands are taking a toll on your body," Trent said, hoisting a stack of chairs onto a cart. “You keep choosing younger and younger women. They are going to kill you someday."

　　Deke let out a sardonic laugh. He put another stack of chairs onto the cart, thinking about Trent's words. The one-night stands weren't killing him physically. They were killing him emotionally. His mother had always said, “If you clutter up your life with meaningless things, you will have no room in your life for the things that matter." Was taking a woman home after each breakdown of Grotesque keeping him from finding a woman to share his life with?

　　Or maybe it was his crappy attitude and scary appearance. His scars made him look dangerous. He wasn't the type of bad boy women said they wanted. He scratched at the scar that ran from his shoulder to his elbow, shoving the thought of how he'd acquired it out of his brain. Brenda was the last person he wanted to think about. It was her betrayal that made him the untrusting man he was today.

　　“You taking a break?" Pete Shapiro said.

　　Deke shook himself from his reverie. “What? No union rules?"

　　Pete snorted. “That'll be the day. Anyone up for coffee and pie after this?"