She retrieves the crusty paring knife from the bottom of her backpack and washes that in the sink, too.
There’s no point in staying up. She turns off the TV and the bedside lamp and stretches defiantly in the middle of the bed.
It’s too dark. Too quiet. The hoodie hanging in the shower drip-drip-drips into the tub, each droplet echoing like a gunshot, echoing the percussive beat of her heart. Outside, the wind howls like a living thing, screaming like she had earlier. The wail of someone seeking to disappear.
Sarah tosses and turns on the too-firm mattress. Her toes strain against the tucked sheets; she struggles to kick them out. The stale motel air is smothering, as thick as the blankets on the bed. As thick as the brushstrokes on the painting above her head. The wind shrieks, or maybe it’s her own voice in her head.
Isn’t this what she wanted? To be alone?
She sits up and turns the TV back on. Voices fill the room, and she drifts into sleep at last.
* * *
Sarah wakes with a start to the growl of an engine outside. Ben’s home. Clammy sweat spreads across her skin like frost.
Then her fists close around flannel, and she remembers in a rush that she’s not at home. There’s no TV in their bedroom, after all, let alone one broadcasting colored bars. The engine still grumbles outside, though, in the motel parking lot. Sarah glances at the clock. It’s one in the morning. Why would Caleb come back at this time of night?
She switches off the TV, plunging the room into darkness. If it’s not Caleb, they’ll think the motel is deserted. It’s been snowing for hours, enough time to hide their footprints.
Light seeps from under the edge of the blackout curtains, paralyzing Sarah with fear. How many times has she lain in bed like this, dreading Ben coming home? The warning drone of the hatchback as it pulled in front of the house, the headlights brightening the front window of their ground-floor apartment. Not knowing if he’d come in angry or sullen or affectionate. Not knowing if he’d come in at all, or fall asleep on the sofa texting some mystery woman, claiming the next morning he didn’t want to wake Sarah up.
A car door slams. Raucous laughter breaches the darkness. “Over here!” a man yells. It doesn’t sound like Caleb.
Sarah fumbles for the telephone on the bedside table. Who is she going to call? Not the police, they won’t come for her. Not unless she leaves the motel and wanders up to town with the virus she’s supposedly carrying. Her eyes fall on Caleb’s business card, illuminated by the light leaking into the room.YOUR NORTHERN GETAWAY, it promises.Someone’s getaway. Not hers. Hands shaking, she dials the number.
She almost sobs with relief when it picks up after the third ring. “Hello?” It’s a male voice, lacking Caleb’s deep resonance.
“Hi,” she croaks. “Is Caleb there? It’s Sarah at the motel.”
“Do you hear them? Do you hear the screaming?”
“What?”
“Elijah!” a muffled voice hisses.
“It’s the girl at the motel,” the unfamiliar voice says.
There’s a rattle and scrape as the receiver changes hands. “Hi, Sarah,” Caleb says. “Is there a problem?”
She wants to cry at how calm and steady his voice is. “Sorry to call so late, but there are people outside and?—”
She shrieks at the sudden explosion.
It’s not a big explosion, like a bomb. Just a burst of concentrated violence, followed by a shimmer of sound, incongruous in its delicacy.
“Sarah?”
“They’re breaking the?—”
A smash bursts right in her eardrums, punctuated by more laughter and the tinkle of glass. The room suddenly sucks in a gust of freezing air, the blackout curtains lurching.
Sarah drops the receiver and rockets off the bed to the bathroom. Bare feet slapping the cold tile, she slams the door and locks it. The shouts and smashing glass suddenly sound far away, although not far enough. She snatches her knife off the counter, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, she’s glad it’s close.
She slides down to the floor, pressing her shoulder blades into the door to stop herself from shaking.Do you hear them?Elijah had asked. She wonders whotheyare.Do you hear the screaming?She hears nothing now except the familiar roar of blood rushing in her ears.
She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting in darkness when a thumping echoes in the distance. Someone’s at the motel room door. She squeezes the knife handle, prepared to swipe, her lungs threatening to burst like she’s spent too long underwater.
“Sarah!” a man shouts. “Sarah, are you in there?”
