“My God,” he says. “I’m going to sleep for about a hundred and fifty years. When I wake up again, I’ll have a long gray beardand curled toenails, eyes all bloodshot and clothes in tatters. I’ll be fucking gross.”
I laugh. “Wow,” I say. “Thank you for that glimpse into the future. I’m sure glad we’re sharing a room. You should weave that into a bedtime story later.”
“Anytime,” he says, reaching over to pat my knee before opening his door and climbing out.
I grab our bags from the backseat and walk next to Jackson as he maneuvers inside on his crutches. The lobby smells like vanilla, and it’s quaint with a brightly colored rug and large fireplace on the far wall. Chairs are positioned around a massive coffee table scattered with magazines.
A pretty redheaded girl smiles from behind the counter when she sees us. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks Jackson over thoroughly. He flashes her a winning smile.
“Welcome to the Sundowner,” she tells him. “How can I help you?”
With her attention focused fully on Jackson, I walk past them toward the elevator and press the button. From around the corner, the girl laughs at something I didn’t hear. Then Jackson asks if there are any rooms available.
“For the two of you?” the girl asks.
“Yes, please.”
The elevator door slides open, and as Jackson makes our reservation, I walk inside and push the button for the second floor. I could have taken the stairs, but frankly, I’m fall-down exhausted. When I’m in the hallway again, I drop one of the duffel bags anddrag it behind me. After a wrong turn, I find my way to room 228. I rest my shoulder against the wall and knock.
Annalise opens the door, smiles at me, and checks the hallway from left to right. “Jackson getting a room?” she asks.
I tell her that he is, and she invites me inside, taking one of the bags from my hand. Quentin is sitting at the desk, drinking a Coke, and he holds his hand up to me in a wave. He looks as tired as I feel, and I ease down on the edge of the bed. Quentin takes a swig of his soda before setting it aside and swinging his chair around to face me.
“How’s Jackie holding up?” he asks me.
“He’s not really talking about it,” I say.
“That good, huh?” Quentin exhales heavily and exchanges a look with Annalise. She comes to sit next to me but stares at Quentin.
“Did you have any idea about his father?” she asks him. “You’ve known the family a long time. Any hints?”
“Naw,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, his dad has always been an asshole, no doubt. But I barely saw the guy. Really, Jackie was always running to my house. But”—he shrugs—“to answer your question, no. I wouldn’t have thought him capable of this.” Quentin turns to me, his expression pained. “I was thinking about it, Mena. Jackson’s mother… she was murdered. You don’t think… You don’t think his dad had something to do with that, do you?”
“We should be prepared for that possibility,” I say. “And if it’s true, Jackson will need us.”
“Hell, he needs us now. My man’s a mess.”
There’s a short knock on the door, and Quentin stands quickly from his chair, leaving it spinning as he heads for the door. He opens it, and Jackson crutches in and holds up a key card for me.
“She upgraded me,” he says with a cute grin. I smile and thank him for being so charming to strangers. “We’re just two rooms down from here,” he says, handing me the extra key before sliding the other into his pocket. Quentin closes the door asks Jackson if he wants a soda. Jackson waves him off.
“Actually,” I say. “I need a phone. I have to check in with the other girls. They have no idea what’s happened.”
“Are they angry with me?” Annalise asks, wringing her hands in her lap. “Are they mad that I left without saying goodbye?”
“They were at first,” I admit. “Well, notangry, just… hurt. But we’ll all be together soon. We forgive pretty easily.”
She rolls her eyes. “Maybe a little too easily, but okay.”
I’m not sure who Annalise is referring to, but I assume it’s Winston Weeks. She doesn’t exactly hold grudges, but she definitely doesn’t forgive men who hurt us. Not that I’ve forgiven Winston by any means, but let’s just say that Annalise would rather shove a steak knife into his gut than share a meal with him.
Quentin goes back to the desk and opens up the laptop that he took from the house. He plugs it in, and we wait for it to boot up. While it does, Jackson pulls out the extra chair near the desk and sits so that he can look over Quentin’s shoulder. The computer screen flashes on.
Password protected.
“Fantastic,” Jackson says, leaning back, but then almost immediately leaning forward again to place his hand on Quentin’s arm. “Wait,” he says, “try Bunnybaby1984.”
“What?” Quentin asks. “Ew, why?”
