Angling my face up to the sun, for it to dry my tears, I looked upward. A few floors up, I noticed another person sitting at his hotel balcony. A man. Tall and tan and maybe older. My hands twitched. I was tempted to wipe my face clean so he wouldn’t see me cry. But then I realized he was staring at me so openly, with such intense interest, there was no point. I was busted. I met his gaze head-on, daring him to say something, to do something. He looked like the angel of death. Not beautiful. Not homely. Just . . . different from everyone else. In an impressive, frightening way. He was holding
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