Satin Princess(2)

“Uh, no. Not exactly.”

I hear movement on the other end of the phone. “Wherever you’re heading, I’ll meet you there.”

“Freya—”

“You’re my friend, Jessa. You made this alien city feel safe, and I won’t ever forget that. Let me be there for you now.”

I actually get choked up hearing her say that. Helping her drunkenly navigate her way to her apartment really meant that much to her? It felt ridiculous to expect anything in return for basic human kindness—quite literally the least I could do—and yet here she is, willing to rush to my side at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll drop a pin where I’m headed.”

“Thank you,” she sighs.

We hang up, and as I set my phone down, I realize I’m shivering. The heater in the car is on, but I’m still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

This is gonna be fine, I tell myself. Everything is gonna be fine.





*



Half an hour later, Chris pulls up at the motel. It’s even more rundown than I remember.

The walls are painted a faint shade of Pepto-Bismol pink that somehow makes it even more depressing. Everything looks faded like an old photograph.

“Jess,” Chris says, ducking down and staring at the motel through his windshield. “Are you sure?”

“It’s perfect,” I say firmly, climbing out of the car.

I follow a sign that points toward the “Foyer.” That sounds a little uppity for a place like this, and sure enough, it turns out to be a little bit of a euphemism. To be more accurate, the sign should probably say something like “Shitty Little Folding Table Crammed in the Front Hallway with a Smelly, Balding Man Seated Behind It Browsing Porn on His Phone.”

“Good evening,” he drones without looking up. “Welcome to the Last Resort Motel. How may I be of service?”

Last Resort Motel. Jesus. Even the name of the place is depressing. “One room please.”

He glances up at me for the first time and then does a double take. “You want a room?”

“Uh, yes.”

He gives me a thorough once-over that makes my skin crawl and then pulls a key down from the wall of rings behind him. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re a different sort than the type of guests we usually receive.”

I suppose that’s what passes for a compliment around here. Sighing, I pull out my purse. “How much?”

“Forty dollars,” he says. “How many nights will you be staying with us?”

“Just the one,” I say.

He nods and accepts the cash I fork over. Then he hands me the key and offers me a toothy smile that’s missing a few teeth.

“Have a fabulous stay.”

I bite my tongue to keep from saying, Somehow, I doubt I will.

Chris looks distinctly uncomfortable when I walk back outside and find him standing next to the door. We have to walk up two flights of stairs to get to my room. I’m spared a view of the apocalyptic-looking purple high-rise condos across the road, but in return, I get an eyeful of a vile dumpster that hasn’t been emptied since the Clinton administration.

I close the curtains the moment we enter the room. Then I bolt the door shut.

The place is just as underwhelming as I expected. There’s a single bed pushed up against one wall with one cigarette-stained bedside table. A door to the right leads to what I assume is the bathroom.

I’m not ready to view the guaranteed horror show that is the shower, so I collapse onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. The only silver lining is that my headache has receded somewhat.

I feel the bed sink with Chris’s weight. He’s right next to me, his hand grazing against mine. The narrow bed doesn’t offer much room.

“Okay,” he says. “I think it’s time you told me what happened.”

“Maybe we should wait for Freya. I don’t think I have the strength to repeat the story twice.”

He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at me. “How bad is this, Jess?”

I blink and two tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. “I was wrong about him, Chris. I… read him all wrong.”

“What did he do to you?”

“That’s just it. He did nothing to me. In fact, he’s been lovely to me.”

Chris looks both confused and annoyed. “I don’t—”

“He killed his wife,” I blurt out.

Chris stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize that saying the words out loud is the final nail in the coffin.

“He told you that?” he asks incredulously.

“No, I… found out.”

“How?”

More tears spill over. I can’t even focus long enough to concentrate on his question. “I was so sure, Chris. So stupidly sure he didn’t do it.”

“Why?” he asks, looking at me with a searching expression. “You saw him kill a man right in front of you. Is ‘wife-killer’ really such a stretch from that?”

The opening to confess is right there. But I can’t bring myself to admit that I’ve watched him kill more than once.

“That was different. They were both dangerous men in dangerous situations.”

“What does that even mean?”