The heavy, soundproofed door to the private suite bore her name: Marie Royce, and a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. It opened with a soft electronic click. Rivera had expected white walls and metal rails, instead, the room looked like a high-end hotel.
The walls were soft and cream colored. There was a velvet armchair near the window that overlooked a private, manicured garden. An empty crystal vase for flowers stood on the table. The bookshelf was filled with hardcovers, and the muted television played an old black-and-white film with the volume low.
It was beautiful, too beautiful for a place that smelled faintly of antiseptic beneath the perfume of flowers.
And then Rivera saw her. Her silver-blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Her skin was smooth, and her features delicate, al
