This is a mystery novel of a sort, and could maybe under the right circumstances make a good movie. What stands between it and success is a kind of death of language that happens within it. We are in a high security (read: privacy) hotel in Los Angeles on the cusp of opening. It’s a kind of soft-opening/finishing up while testing the various systems. Everything is wired with camera, and microphones, and redundant systems designed to protect the people within. We are in the head […]
There is no thirteenth floor; Charles Destin is extremely superstitious.
Security by Gina Wohlsdorf