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I left my ruined hair as it was, but retied the curls. I did not have the strength to wash and comb it without the correct comb and hair balm. Auntie’s careful work had collapsed on one side. One twist had come undone. I held it between my fingers for a long moment, then pinned it back and made myself stop.
I looked at the wreck of my own hair and thought, unhelpfully, of his. A neat crown of tight curls. Not a hair out of place. As if his hair had been told what to do.
Who was he?
How did he leave a pile of bodies behind without taking a single hit in a shootout?
How did he know about the senator and the gang members?
He had strong teeth. I had noticed. Occupational hazard.
And that jawline.
I wiped the fog from the mirror with the heel of my hand, mostly to silently chastise myself. A split lip. A bruise blooming along my cheekbone, plum at the centre and yellow at the edges. The girl in the glass looked like someone from a news bulletin. The kind I used to scroll past.
I didn’t know what day it was. Where I was. All I knew was that I had to let my family know that I was alive. My phone was gone. My clutch was gone. I rubbed the bare spot on my finger where my mother’s ring had been, and the skin there felt tender and strange.
My generous, loving aunt and uncle. The extended cousins and second cousins. My girls on campus. Every one of them had helped build me up, showing me different perspectives while showing care. I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep the sound inside.
A loud knock startled me.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
One grunt.
I shimmied across to the bathroom door and pressed my ear against it. The front door opened. My eyes widened as it closed again, and then nothing. He’d left the motel.
“Fuck. Fuck. Oh, holy fuck,” I mumbled, twisting the lock and yanking the door wide.
The room was empty. I rummaged through his drawers.
No.
No.
Yes.
No.
No car keys. Of course not.
I dropped the towel and pulled on his shirt. Cornflower blue. I would never have guessed he owned anything that colour. The hem hit me mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowed my hands. Boxers. Long socks. They smelled of cedar too.
Lastly, I took the charcoal cotton scarf from the chair and wrapped it around my head. It would suck the moisture right out of my hair, but I didn’t see any satin or silk. The cloth was soft and still faintly warm. I did not think about that.
No shoes.
Fuck.
I opened the drawer again and pulled a second pair of socks over the first.
I glanced at the bag beneath the bed and dragged it out with my foot. Steel winked at me from the unzipped gap. A sheath. A gun. So much ammunition. My stomach turned over.
The knife would do. It weighed more than I expected, and the grip fit my palm oddly, as though it had learned someone else’s hand. I slid it up my sleeve and hoped the sleeve would hide it.
I crossed to the window and peeled back the curtain. The wet asphalt glistened under the lamps. No one was around. It was dark. The car was still outside. Perhaps he had walked to get the food.
