Three days later, she left with a police escort.
Something about her gentle demeanor, the puffy eyes and the tear tracks on her face told a sensitive night clerk not to ask for ID. No doubt, she faked her name and address.
I saw her the following morning. She paid in advance for 2 more nights. She could not be tracked through a credit card.
She was dressed in a iconic white Chanel suit, was neatly coiffed and recently manicured. She carried herself with poise and spoke eloquently. A lady of means. We didn’t ask questions.
We never saw her car, she called for cab service once or twice a day. She didn’t seem to have a cell phone, using the courtesy phone in the lobby.
She came and went quietly, still dressed in that Chanel suit, always clutching the box purse, smiling as she passed us.
In spite of her efforts, he found her. We were told by local police that her husband was a prominent local business man.
She did not resist. She was taken for psychiatric treatment at a local facility.
We will never know her story. But what were the contents of that box purse ?
Legal documents, divorce papers, cherished family photographs, airline tickets, passports, old love letters, jewels of some value ?
What would any of us take along and clutch so dearly as we made our escape ?
It was something we talked about for a long time after her departure.