The safe house was not at all what Brandon had expected.
Instead of a grimy motel room or a squalid apartment, Baby Doll led him to a pristine, minimalist loft in a sleek, anonymous high-rise overlooking the city's financial district. The furniture was sharp and expensive, the lights recessed, the windows floor-to-ceiling glass.
He stood in the middle of the vast, empty living room, feeling like a smudge of dirt on a perfectly clean white surface. He was still in the same clothes, streaked with warehouse grime and the supposed stepmother's blood. Baby Doll, by contrast, had already moved into the space as if she owned it, shrugging off her tactical jacket to reveal a simple black tank top.
"Shower," she said, pointing down a hallway. "You'll find clothes that fit. I'll order food. Then we talk."
