Sadie(55)

I don’t like how that makes me feel. I never know how to meet people’s kindness or consideration, unless wanting to tear my skin off is the right reaction. I clear my throat, and change the subject back to what it needs to be: “H-how well d-do you know Darren, anyway?”

“Got this job, thanks to him,” he says. “We met online a while back. I was in a tough spot, he helped me out—got Joe to give me work. Joe let me stay here until I had enough saved for my own place. He’s a great guy.”

I step back, wondering if Keith has walked me to the edge of another nightmare like Silas Baker. Met online. What the fuck does that mean? And if it means— If it means what I think it does, will I hesitate this time?

“O-online?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“We share a common interest, that’s all.”

“And w-what’s that?”

He frowns. “You never told me your name.”

“You’re r-right. I d-didn’t.”

The TV pops again, turning to snow. I leave while his back is turned, my fingertips tingling, trying to quell my building panic. As soon as I clear the office, I move down the row of rooms until I’m standing right in front of ten. I test the door. It doesn’t open. It takes everything for me not to kick it. I run my fingers through my hair and I don’t know why this has to be so hard, why I haven’t been through enough. It should be easy. It should have always been easy. None of this bullshit with beautiful houses hiding ugly, sick fuck things that I can’t get out of my head. Every mile I’ve put between me and Montgomery is someone I didn’t save and my sister’s dead. She’s dead. I don’t know why that’s not fucking enough.

I punch the door with my scraped-up knuckles, hard, and hurry away from it, passing my own room. I keep moving, until I reach the end of the motel. There’s got to be a way in to Keith’s room. I stare at the highway beyond this place, at the scattered houses, some closer than others. Langford is small but there’s something about the feel of it that reminds me of Cold Creek. Smoke crawls up the skyline, a barrel fire in someone’s backyard. I think I can make out the faint shapes of people sitting round it, country music and laughter floating through the air.

I move around the building, to the back of the motel. This side of it is one long line of windows and you can tell exactly where the property line stops. The narrow strip of mowed grass suddenly becomes long enough to reach my waist.

I tiptoe over to the first window. They’re all just a little wider and taller than me. I grip the crumbling wooden sill and pull myself up, falling back at the sting of it splintering off into my hand. Goddammit. After I finish fishing the pieces of it out of my palm, I force myself up again, until I can get a good view in and it’s what I thought … bathroom.

I could fit through this. It’ll be tight, but I can fit. I push against the glass, can feel it give a little. Not enough to shatter. I jump down again and then start counting until I pass my own room and I’m standing at the back of Keith’s. Maybe this is the easy part.

Breaking glass should be easy.

I comb the ground for something heavy enough to force against it. It takes a while. I have to wade into the long grass until I find a rock hefty enough. As soon as its rough weight is in my palm, I flash to the house, Montgomery, the lockbox …

I don’t know if I can go through that again.

It’s getting darker out. I go back to Keith’s window, pulling myself up. I have to make this count and I have to make it quick. I don’t know what Ellis can hear from inside the office, but the cleaner the break the better. I lever my arm back and force the rock against the glass.

Through the glass.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

I hop back down. My arm looks like a fucking suicide attempt, just red, red, red, and torn raw. The pain is exquisite. I’m stupid, I’m stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid …

“Oh, fuck…”

I choke back a sob and listen through the pounding in my skull because having your fucking arm ripped open fucking hurts, but that’s going to be the least of my problems if Ellis heard me. I wait. Nothing happens. I think it’s safe. I don’t even know what the glass breaking sounded like, if it was loud, quiet enough. All I know is my hand reached back and the next thing I was in this immediate, bloody aftermath.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay, okay…”

How cruel is it that the only person I can muster the steadiness of my own voice for is the one who will be least reassured by it.

I just need—I just need to get into that room.

I use the rock to clear the window frame of what’s left of the glass, throw my bag through and then get to the excruciating task of maneuvering myself inside, trying not to scream at the pain in my arm, the torn, open skin assaulted by air, by any movement. Trying not to feel my own sticky blood everywhere I don’t want it to be.

I end up in the shower. The room is dark and I can smell moldering towels. I step out of the shower and squint into the dim light and when I see a lump of them—towels—in the sink, I grab one and wrap it around my arm, my stomach revolting at the thought of it touching Keith before touching me. I move quietly across the floor and open the bathroom door, trying to ignore the furious throbbing in my arm and the way the towel is slowly turning red.