Chapter Eight
Mr. Smith
The keycard I’d swiped was to an executive queen on the fourth floor. Basically, this meant the room consisted of a lone bed, a dresser holding a small television, and a desk and chair with access to the internet. After where we’d been sleeping, it seemed like the Ritz. I didn’t even bother checking the windows. At this level, and in this part of town, they’d be sealed. If anything were to happen here, we’d have to fight our way out.
I tugged off the jacket and tossed it on the bed, and then scratched my hair after taking the ball cap off. Emily was leaning over near the end of the bed, lifting the corner of a blue patterned comforter.
“What are you doing?”
She straightened, her face red and hair askew from being upside down. “Bed bugs.”
I bit my cheek. “Why don’t you go ahead and clean up. I’ll check the bed.”
She nodded, but then turned back on her way to the bathroom. “Is it safe?”
“Absolutely.”
She narrowed her gaze on me for a moment, but the temptation of clean water won out.
I picked up the phone and pressed the room service key, trying to mimic the gruff voice of the man whose credit card was on file. I ordered a salad, a fruit plate, and then decided Emily was a cheeseburger girl. “Extra fries,” I said. “And the cherry cheesecake.”
As I returned the receiver to its cradle, I heard the water shut off in the shower. The bathroom door cracked open and in the reflection of the mirrored closet doors across the narrow entry hall, I could see Emily peek out through the opening.
“No one here but me,” I said. “Still safe.”
She didn’t say anything, but the door clicked closed for another few minutes. When she emerged again, it was in bare feet. Her wet hair hung in dark waves over her dirty gray tee shirt, and her jeans were rolled up at the hems. She held the damp towel in her hands.
“Are you going to shower?”
“Nah.” I smiled. “I’ve got a few more days.”
She made a face as she pressed the towel to the ends of her damp hair. She absently glanced around the room, dark carpet, beige walls, generic still life painting over the bed, and then her eyes fell on me.
“Your arm,” she said, suddenly recalling the injury.
I glanced down. “It’s fine.”
She crossed to me. “It’s not fine.” She leaned closer, examining the wound. Her eyes came up to mine.
“It’s fine,” I said again.
She took a corner of the damp towel and brushed a section of dried blood away. She swallowed, not able to look at me.
I took the towel from her hand. “I’ll clean it up.”
I stood to go rinse it in the sink and Emily backed up to sit numbly on the bed.
I left the door open as I washed the blood away. Nothing remained but a thin pink line. I wadded the towel and tossed it to the floor.
When I returned, Emily was still sitting motionless on the side of the bed near the nightstand. I would have to wait, I thought, tell her in the morning.
I sat beside her, but on the far end, and that was how we stayed, unspeaking, for the next twenty minutes. It was so still and quiet, I could actually hear her stop breathing when the impatient knocking echoed loudly through the room.
“It’s okay,” I said, reaching out to touch her forearm as I spoke. “Room service. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”
She swallowed, and began breathing again. The bellman’s knuckles rapped the door three more times.
I glanced through the peephole, but he was staring, annoyed, at the tray of food and not the door or the hall. I heard the bed creak behind me as I slid the chain, switched the lock, and opened the door. She was watching again.