It was my third morning. I sat across from Eva Notty. She placed a final plate before me: a single, perfect slice of apple pie, steam rising like a ghost.
Breakfast was served in a solarium at the back of the house, glass walls steamed with condensation. There were three other guests. A stoic woman in a business suit named Margaret, who clutched her briefcase like a shield. A retired boxer named Sal, his knuckles a roadmap of scars. And a teenage girl with purple hair and hollow eyes, who gave her name as “No One.” eva notty bed and breakfast
“Your last tag, Leo,” she said.