I pause in the hall to gather myself.
This is beyond messed up. I just stitched what's clearly some kind of knife wound closed on a man who's been blackmailing me into dating him. And I'm pretty sure he's some kind of very successful criminal.
Normal people don't go to a new acquaintance for medical care.
“You all good?” Gem pokes her head down the hall and frowns. “You're still in your clothes.”
“Oh, uh, no, these are my backups.” I hurry past her. “Are you almost ready for school?” I busy myself cleaning a few dishes and making sure her bag is packed.
She gives me a skeptical frown, but I manage to distract her with questions about her college application.
It's the most stressful fifteen minutes of my life, but eventually she hurries out, banana and coffee in her hand, pausing only to kiss my cheek. “Love you, sis. Couldn't do this without you.”
“I know.” I watch her go, smiling a little.
Before I storm back to my bedroom. I fling the door open, prepared to tell Stellan how he's a bastard and he can't ever do this again and if he somehow jeopardizes my sister's path to a decent life I'll murder him myself?—
But my room's empty.
I look around in a panic until I realize the window is open. I run over and poke my head out.
Stellan's down on the street, casually leaning against a stubborn city tree. He's still shirtless under his expensive suit jacket.
He raises a hand and nods before turning and walking off without a word.
I watch him go in stunned silence.
How the hell did he climb out of that window? High on drugs and with a freshly stitched knife wound? That's insane and impossible.
But I'm strangely relieved. At least now I don't have to ask him any uncomfortable questions.
Such as: why did he show up at my door?
And why did I actually help, despite how much I don't want anything to do with him?
STELLAN
There was a time not all that long ago when seedy motels littered Delaware County. They catered to the truckers bringing goods up from down south, pimps who needed cheap spots for their tricks to do business, men cheating on their wives, wives murdering their cheating husbands, that sort of thing. The good old-fashioned Delco way of life.
It's not like that anymore. At least the motels aren't. The same sort of shitbag people still flock to these places, but now the outsides all have that same bleak modernist look. Lots of random geometric designs, drab colors, minimalist interiors with that fake wood linoleum flooring stuff all over the place. Easier to clean blood off that stuff than it is to steam carpet.
Gone is all that character. But in other ways, it's better like this. Now that the motels look exactly the same, I know how to navigate them. Nobody looks twice at a big man wearing a long coat walking the halls of a place like this late at night. Nobody wants to get caught staring for too long. Not when they're probably doing some shady-ass shit too.
Lucky for me, the girl working the front desk was very helpful. She took my twenty-dollar bill and gave me a room number without asking too many questions. She smiled a lot and fluttered her eyelashes, and I bet she’ll have a good description for the cops when they inevitably show up sometime in the next few hours, but that can’t be helped. I have a face women like to remember. It’s a gift and a curse.
Room 215 is tucked in a dim corner of the building. I stand outside and check my phone. No calls or texts. I idly rub at the wound on my ribs and scratch at the stitches. It’s been over a week since I last saw Kira, and her handiwork is getting ready to come out. Every time I touch the cut, I think about her and wish I had more time to visit the diner.
Her rent is astronomical at this point, and she still hasn’t accepted my dinner invitation.
I smile to myself. Stubborn, fucking girl.
I’d rather be drinking shitty coffee in a beat-up old booth, but this is more pressing.
It took way too long to find my friend here and used up way too many favors and resources.
I consider knocking. The bastard might even answer. I know he’s in there since I’ve been following him all day long. Which hasn’t been easy. The bastard’s boring as hell. A trip to Wawa for gas and lunch, a stop at a Target for half an hour, and right back to the hotel. He hasn’t been out of his room in hours.
I can’t give my friend the chance to escape, though. Almost reluctantly, I slam the heel of my heavy work boots against the cheap door. It buckles and cracks open after a second hard kick.
