Twenty years ago, a husband-and-wife dance team checked into that same room. By morning, the husband lay broken on the pavement five floors below, and his wife was on her way to the electric chair. The papers called it the city’s most notorious murder. Both of them are buried.
So why is the woman in black signing the register with their names? Why do their voices echo from a loudspeaker disconnected for years? And why, when the lobby clock stops, does the empty ballroom flicker to life with a tango neither of them lived to dance?