I dragged my small, battered suitcase through the lobby of The Sovereign, my sanctuary in Buckhead. I was exhausted, my bones aching with a weariness that went deeper than muscle, but a smile touched my lips as the elevator chimed for the 30th floor. I was home. Or so I thought.

The hallway was cool and silent, a sharp contrast to the chaotic heat outside. I arrived at door 30A, my penthouse—our penthouse. I dug around in my purse, my fingers brushing against the receipts of cheap hospital cafeteria meals, and pulled out the key fob. I tapped it against the digital reader.