Security(17)

The Killer is still behind Franklin, watching—perhaps enraptured by the glob of guest soaps that has grown to the size of a softball, or perhaps debating methods. More likely debating methods. An emotional reaction to this situation might be problematic, complex, and multifaceted. Franklin is unlikable. It is truly almost impossible to like Franklin. The only people who like Franklin are fellow narcissists.

Tessa and Brian are passing the eighteenth floor. “Tinted glass?” Brian says, knocking on the slate panes. “I noticed that coming up. What’s it for?”

“The penthouses. Gives the highest--paying guests extra privacy.” Tessa is reading her checklists. There are lists for housekeeping, kitchen staff, waitstaff, and admin. Tessa knows them by heart. She’s reading them because she’s nervous.

Brian leans on the railing, then stands straight. He shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s the sound of flipping paper, a scratching pen. “Say, Tess?”

“Hmm?” She makes check mark after check mark, back--documenting the items she’s completed since leaving her clipboard behind. “What?” she says.

They’re passing the seventeenth floor. “This place have a pool?”

Tessa, surprised, looks up. Brian’s smiling. Tessa laughs shortly, and nods. “Yeah. It’s not in the building.”

“Outdoor?” Brian whistles. “You went cheap with the pool?”

“I’ll show you our cheap pool. You’ve never seen a cheap pool like ours, I promise you.” Her eyes are teasing.

Brian makes a general gesture with his neck. “You like this job? You’re happy with it?”

“It’s good, yeah. The hours are only crazy during weeks like this. I get a lot of downtime.” She sticks out her chin. “And I’m not risking my life every time I come to work.” Brian is blinking, hurt. Tessa says more gently, “I get to do lots of planning, design. That’s what I really like, the designing phase.”

“You designed this place?” His eyebrows rise.

“No.” Tessa is lying. Tessa smells a compliment coming and must block it. “I had input, that’s all. I gave suggestions.” Bullshit. She took architecture courses throughout college but chose to earn a business degree because it was more marketable. She’s heart--stoppingly afraid of being dependent on anyone, ever again, after a childhood spent at the mercy of the foster system.

“You designed this place,” Brian says in wonder.

“I helped. Some. Not much.” Tessa flips a checklist over and—they are passing the sixteenth floor—draws a perfect sketch of the ballroom in seven seconds. “I thought of that.” She points to the bandstand. “Making the room octagonal like that, so we could have storage and a kitchen on either side but keep the ocean view. It’s not a big deal.”

Brian takes a hand out of his pocket and touches the sketch. He caresses the lines like they are something else entirely. “Tess,” he says, and rubs the side of his head. “Jesus.”

“What?”

He leans against the railing again. “I thought I could—never mind.”

“What?” Tessa says, stern.

Brian points at the fifteenth floor, which is coming into view. The door won’t ding open for another twenty seconds or so. The main elevator really is ludicrously slow. The secret elevator is much, much faster.

Tessa’s turning red. “What’s—”

“When you’ve got time,” Brian says, flicking a nail on the railing. “It’s important, but it’s not urgent. I’ve waited eleven years, you know? I can wait another couple hours.”

“Wait for what?” There’s a foreign softness in Tessa’s voice. Hope?

The doors ding open. Brian holds them so Tessa can go ahead.

The Killer has lost patience. He is walking toward Franklin. Franklin’s soap gob is almost the size of a basketball. This is Franklin’s third strike. I instituted a strike system for him after he plastic--wrapped the electricians’ porta potty seats twelve weeks ago. Destin told me to be lenient, but look at this, look at that damn soap ball—what a waste, what a child.

Tessa’s walking with Brian toward Room 1516, and Brian’s impersonating a butler named Jeeves—“Follow Jeeves, madaahme. Your quahtahs are ovah hee--yah.” Tessa is trying not to laugh. Brian is saying, “Don’t laaauf, madaahme. It’s not dignifaah--yeed.” Tessa blushes when she laughs. Tessa blushes when she comes. She only comes during oral sex, so it is a challenge to see her blush. Especially if one is not skilled at making her laugh. It would have been nice to know the key to making her laugh was to tell her not to laugh. Maybe the key to making her come is telling her not to.

It is pointless to speculate. It’s a waste of precious energy.

It is incredibly painful, one assumes, to be yanked off a ladder from behind. Franklin lands like a dropped marionette. He yaps and jerks, sees the huge masked man looming over him, and manages to scramble a few feet before the Killer catches his elbow. And squeezes.

There are innumerable techniques for breaking human bones. Certain types of military training teach men how. Rangers and SEALs, primarily. There is no one on the first through fourteenth floors, save the Killer and Franklin, to hear Franklin shrieking, to hear the loaded pop of his right forearm, his right upper arm, his wrist concurrent with his left forearm (defense fracture), his—