A mere twenty miles north of Paradise, the Lucky Strike Motel nestles against the banks of the Hudson River. With its “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, this unassuming establishment has become a favoured retreat for couples bound by matrimony—though not necessarily to one another.

Betty Monroe, its dispassionate proprietress, extends no warm welcome to her transient guests, relying instead on the allure of affordable rates and the promise of anonymity. A cigarette clamped between her coral-tinged lips oscillates rhythmically as she speaks, evoking the image of a conductor guiding an unseen orchestra. Perched precariously on the tip of her angular nose, a pair of oversized tortoiseshell spectacles frames eyes as sharp and unerring as a supermarket scanner, ever appraising the motley assortment of visitors who pass through her doors.

Betty takes pride in her uncanny ability to spot those likely to abscond without settling their bills, insisting on cash payment upfront from all who enter. And so, the Lucky Strike Motel endures—a bastion of discretion and secrecy, its silent walls bearing witness to the myriad transgressions of its fleeting patrons.