One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(104)

I’m not opposed. Everyone likes to have the social 411 and this is pure gold. The motel clerk didn’t make the system; he’s just trying to survive it. I respect that.

“I’ll be back in thirty,” I propose.

The dude practically levitates. “Good deal!”

I have to smile. At least one of us is happy. Then I limp painfully back to Luciana’s room, and the pile of backpacks that started out days ago as fresh equipment, and are now a tribute to the injured, the dying, and the dead.



* * *



—

My idea is to launder the dirty clothes. It’s not a well-thought-out or detailed plan. I know simply that most of us destroyed many wardrobe items. Given my agitated, restless state, cleaning those articles of clothing is something to do. I will whip each pack into some semblance of order, so when it’s finally reunited with its rightful owner, it’s not a complete horror show.

I start with my own pack—which is to say Josh’s—pulling out the sweat-and dirt-saturated clothing that I borrowed from Luciana. Some items I stuffed into my abandoned sleeping bag as we staged the base camp before leaving. But I destroyed several more items after that. And what isn’t specifically dirty doesn’t exactly pass the sniff test.

In the end, I determine every clothing article in every pack will need to be washed. This approach is going to lead to one helluva laundry pile, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.

I settle in on the floor of the motel room. Grab a pack. Empty out the clothes. Peruse the rest of the contents. I discover empty granola wrappers, plundered first aid kits, used water bottles.

I create piles. Laundry. Garbage. Dishwashing. It’s work, and work is good. More time doing, less time thinking.

I tire quickly but, being the obsessive sort, can’t stop. I recognize most packs by color. I subscribe to no kind of order. I grab whichever pack is closest.

Realistically speaking, I’ll never get each pack reassembled with the correct items. I discover I don’t care. This project isn’t really about gear, laundry, or proper ownership. It’s about saving me from me.

I reach the bottom of the final pack. I remove a glass jar partially filled with white tubes. I don’t understand it. It’s definitely not food and clearly not first aid. There’s a label covered in incredibly tiny print.

It takes me a moment to read it all.

Then I have to sit back.

I think I might vomit.

I know, but I don’t want to know. Memories go flying through my head. Things I thought were one thing, but now I realize were another. It all makes sense, and yet it defies understanding.

I stare at the backpack for a very long time, as if it’s the one who betrayed me.

Then I slowly rise to standing.

A calm has settled over me.

I have work to do.





CHAPTER 43





Any child of an addict knows what it feels like to be lied to. “I swear I’ll never do it again.” “I promise this is my last drink.” “Of course I won’t make a scene.” From backyard camping that never happened to a million missed events. You learn to ride the ride.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to take.

Night has fallen. At the first contact with the chilly air, I physically recoil, my heartbeat accelerating, a sense of panic building in my chest. What had Neil said about his PTSD being triggered by men in tuxes? I guess mine is now the cold.

I return to the room for my beloved army coat. While I’m at it, I find myself tucking a small flashlight in one pocket, a butane lighter in another. Then helping myself to someone else’s rigged-out paracord bracelet for my wrist. I have access to my own emergency whistle, which feels like a long-lost friend. I hesitate over one last item. Then I just have to do it.

I grab the scary serious tactical blade I told Josh I didn’t want and strap it to my waist, beneath the cover of my jacket.

The weight of it is instantly reassuring. My breathing eases, my panic recedes. I feel complete.

Maybe I’m a deadly-knife kind of gal after all.

I need information. I usually meticulously research my target destinations. I never did that for Ramsey, and now look at me, covered in giant splotches of violent purple while hobbling around like a hundred-year-old woman. I might be impulsive, obsessive, and a tad self-destructive, but normally I try to be smart about it.

This time of night, no public libraries or internet cafés will be open. Which leaves me with one option. Wrapping my arms around my torso for warmth, I limp back to the front office.

Pimply Face looks up immediately from the counter. His face brightens when he spots me, then falls when he realizes I’m not carrying the promised blood-spattered laundry.

“I decided it was too late to start now,” I offer by way of explanation. “Can I still use the machines in the morning?”

“I don’t know.” He’s definitely disappointed. “My shift ends at midnight. Can’t promise what the next person will be willing to do.”

“What’s your name?”

“Seth.”

“Hi, Seth. I’m Frankie Elkin. Pleased to officially meet you.”

This cheers him up. I continue. “I totally understand what you’re saying about permission to use the washers and dryers. I guess I’ll just have to hope the next desk clerk is as helpful as you have been.”