I made quick work of stripping the bed, trying to ignore the stains on the mattress. After I got the new sheets on—unfortunately Franklin hadn’t brought a blanket and the one in here smelled like mothballs—I went into the dated bathroom and took a shower, relieved there was hot water.
The tension of the day hit me hard as the water cascaded over my body, and I soon found myself crying, a luxury I hadn’t allowed myself for several days. Wallowing wouldn’t help me in the long run—I needed to accept my fate and move on. Today had been hard, but I knew I’d been lucky too. I added Max and Ruth and Tiny to my list of blessings. I’d had plenty of blessings since my ordeal had begun a little over two months ago. I just needed to dwell on the good things instead of the bad.
After I dried off and put on my pajamas, I cranked up the heat and crawled under the sheets and the blanket I’d decided to use out of desperation. I considered turning on the TV for white noise, but the silence outside my room calmed my anxious soul. To my surprise, I soon fell asleep.
I bolted upright disoriented, my heart pounding. I’d been dreaming about my rehearsal dinner. Only this time it happened differently—Jake caught me listening in on his conversation with my father and pulled a gun to shoot me.
At first, I thought my own cry had awoken me, but then I realized I’d heard something outside of my room.
I jumped out of bed and reached into my purse, pulling out the gun and checking to make sure the chamber was loaded. Lightheaded with fear, I crept to the window and lifted a slat of the blinds to look outside.
Two men were dragging someone from one of the motel rooms. They tossed him to the ground and then stood on either side of him, only about twenty feet outside of my room.
The accosted person scrambled to his feet, but one of the men pushed him to his knees on the snow-dusted asphalt. The lighting was poor, so I had trouble making out any of the men’s distinguishing features, but I could see that the kneeling man wasn’t wearing a coat. And that one of the men standing over him was pointing a handgun at him.
Panic had me reeling and dark spots flashed before my eyes.
“What are you doin’ here, boy?” one of the men asked. He sounded familiar. “And on a school night, no less.”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’?” the other man asked in exaggerated disbelief. I didn’t recognize the voice.
“I was just out havin’ a good time. You know.”
“Actually,” the second guy said, “I don’t know. I always shot the shit with my friends. You got any friends with you?”
“No, sir,” the boy said, and from the way his voice cracked, I realized he was a teenager. “I don’t.”
“Then let me repeat my original question, son,” the first guy said in an icy tone. “What. Are. You. Doin’. Here?”
What was I doing here? I was witnessing a crime and I was just gawking at it. I rushed toward the phone to call 911, only to realize there wasn’t a dial tone. The phone didn’t work. I scrambled to dig my cell phone out of my purse. No service. I carried it around the room, moving carefully, quietly—if I could hear them, they might be able to hear me—hoping to find a bar of service. Nothing.
“Did you find it, boy?” the second man asked.
“Find what?” the boy said, and then I heard a grunt.
“Don’t you back-talk me, son,” the second man said. “You know damn good and well what I’m talkin’ about.”
I moved carefully back to the window and peeked out of the blinds again. The kid was still hunched over in the parking lot.
What should I do? Rush out there with my gun to stop the men? I suspected they’d kill us both.
“Find anything?” the first guy called over his shoulder. A third man approached him from the motel room several doors down, his features shrouded in shadow.
“It’s all gone. Every last bit of it, but you’ll be interested in what we did find.” He held something in his hand that I couldn’t make out.
“What is it?” the first guy asked.
“One of them digital video cameras. The kid stole our shit, then set up a camera to record us when we showed up to get it.”
“That true?” the first guy asked the boy. He backhanded him in the face before he could answer. “Where’d you hide it, boy?”
“Nowhere,” the boy said. “I didn’t have nothing to do with any of that!”
“Bullshit,” the second man snarled, then hit him again.
“Check the other rooms,” the first guy said. “All of them. They were stashin’ it in a room. Maybe we got the wrong one.”
“How do you explain the kid bein’ in there?” the third guy asked. “And the damn camera?”
“I dunno,” the first guy drawled out disdainfully. “Why don’t we ask ’im?”
“Why’re you here, kid?” the second guy asked.
The boy remained silent.
“Start kickin’ the doors in,” the first guy said. “It’s supposed to be in a bag on the dresser.” He motioned to the guy next to him. “Go with him.”
The second and third guys moved to the unit a couple of doors down from mine, and the sound of splintering wood filled my ears. A couple of seconds later, I heard one of their muffled voices. “Nothin’.”
“If you don’t tell me right now,” the second guy said, whipping out a gun as he strode from the unit and pointing it at the boy’s forehead. “I’m gonna blow yer brains out.”
“I don’t know!” the boy cried out. “I didn’t take it!”
“Keep searchin’,” the first guy said.
My hand tightened on the gun in my own hand. Unless they found what they were looking for, they would eventually bust into my room, and from the look of it, it would be sooner rather than later. Would I shoot them? Could I shoot them?
I felt like a coward hiding in my room, leaving that boy defenseless.
I had to do something. Something that might save us both.
What if I created a distraction?
I had a spare key fob in my purse. I could press the panic button on my keychain and hope I was close enough to Wyatt’s garage it would set off the car alarm. But if I did it, they’d likely know I was the person who’d set it off. They would know I’d seen something.
I had to take the chance.
My hands were shaking, so it took me a couple of seconds longer than usual to grab the key out of my bag and press the button. Sweet relief rushed through me when the horn started blaring.
“Fuck!” the second man said. “What the hell is that?”
“Car alarm,” I heard the third guy say.
“We gotta get out of here,” the first guy said.
“We haven’t found it yet!” the third guy protested, then kicked in the door to the room next to mine.
“Where the fuck is the stash, boy?” the second guy demanded, his tightly controlled voice more alarming than if he’d sounded mad.
“Go to hell,” the boy spat out.
“How about you go first, you little pissant!”
The unmistakable sound of muffled gunfire rang out twice and the boy fell onto his back.