Which meant the only way to protect Anna from a damaging story was to control what story existed for the police to find.
Two officers stood near the concierge desk when I stepped off the elevator, along with a man I didn't recognize — mid-thirties, expensive-looking watch, an expression of practiced, performative concern that struck me, immediately, as entirely wrong for a man supposedly worried about his children's safety.
"Mr. Martin," the hotel's night manager, Preston, said quickly, visibly relieved to see me. "I'm so sorry for the disturbance. This gentleman contacted police claiming a welfare concern regarding one of our housekeeping staff and her children."
"I'm Grayson Voss," the man said, extending a hand I didn't take. "Anna's ex-husband. I have every right to be concerned, given that she's apparently been sneaking my children into hotel rooms she has no business being in."
"Your children," I said evenly, "who are currently asleep, warm, fed, and perfectly safe. I'd like to understand, Mr. Voss, why a father this concerned about his children's welfare is standing in a hotel lobby at midnight with police officers instead of simply calling their mother to check on them directly."
Something flickered across Voss's face — irritation, quickly smoothed over. "I'm not required to explain my parenting decisions to a hotel executive."