Mrs. Washington stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her residence, a wineglass balanced between her index and middle fingers. Red wine sloshed and caught the city lights as she traced slow, careful arcs with her hand.
She wore a green nightdress that gleamed like velvet, baring a generous portion of her cleavage and thighs. Her dark-brown eyes, illuminated by the endless streaks of light zipping between the buildings, remained fixed on the bustling city below.
The sounds, the lights, the people—some might have called it beautiful. Perhaps even Eleanor herself had thought so once. But now, it was enough to drive a person mad. New York was enough to drive anyone mad.
"Eleanor," Melvin's voice came from behind her. She turned. "You asked to see me."
"Yes," Eleanor said softl
