Page 2 of Dark Reasons

His hands settle on the counter; his voice matches my tone. "Uh, sure. Alright. But hurry, there's a ton of people behind you."

"The others can take them," I assure him. Most of my line is dividing off to try and speak to the other guys running the booth. Pulling out some printed photos from my pocket, I show him. "Here are some pictures I took."

He stares at them, unable to keep a poker face. I know what he's thinking—the packaged toys in my photos are mint, classic, rare characters from a 90s era show. Nearly impossible to get, definitely worth several thousand.

"Well?" I prod him. "Are they worth anything?"

Exhaling, he gathers himself and stares curiously at me. "What's your name?"

"Polly," I lie. "And you?"

"Sanford." That's the truth. "Where did you say you found these?"

"My grandpa's attic. Why, are they like, special?"

Sanford palms the side of his neck with a lazy shrug. "Nah, probably only fifty bucks."

There—now that's a lie.

"You uh, got them here with you, you said?" he asks as casually as he can. He's dripping with eagerness. Greed looks good on him, more natural than the naive energy he's trying to send out.

"In my hotel room." I point at the exit near us. "We can go right now, it's down that hall."

Standing tall he walks over to one of the booth workers, saying in his ear, "I gotta go do something."

"What the hell? No, we need you," the guy argues.

Sanford backs away with his hands in the air apologetically. "Sorry, but trust me, it's worth it."

"Dude, come on!"

The appeal fails; Sanford is mine. He follows me towards the exit door, the red letters glowing, beckoning, making my heart race. This is going much easier than it should. I'm a perfectionist, a planner, but even I didn't think I'd get him away from his booth without more coaxing.

Yet here we are. Room 7.

"I'm so happy you're willing to buy these off of me," I say, my hand shaking when I tap my key card. The doorbeepsand swings inward.

"It's no problem," he says, trailing me into the room. "I'm a collector, I can find a buyer for anything."

My voice warbles. "I know you can."I know you fucking can. I know what you do... what you've done."Over here," I say, crouching on the other side of the single Queen bed. The room is big enough to also fit a tiny desk and a standing lamp. There's one window, the drapes drawn over it, but the room is bright enough. We're on the second floor—behind the curtains is the lovely view of the parking lot. Cheap rooms don't get good views, but they have their purpose.

Sanford sways towards me. His shadow slips over my back; he's bending down, wanting to see what I've got in the small suitcase on the floor. There's sweat on my palms, on my neck, down my back. I didn't know adrenaline had ataste.It's like nickels and lemons.

"You know—" he starts to say. But he shuts up, choking on the sentence. I'm still crouching, but he can see the pistol in my hands. The sight of it turns him into a ghostly statue. If he was less shocked, he could tackle me. It would be enough to stop me.

But he doesn't.

So I win.

"Back up," I tell him, rising to my feet.

Sanford licks his lips rapidly. I didn't tell him to hold up his arms, yet he lifts them to his ears anyway. "What the hell?" he asks warily.

"Shh," I hiss. "Just don't talk. Don't say anything."I need to think. Fuck, I'm actually here. I'm actually doing this.On some level I didn't believe I'd get this far. I'm only realizing this now as I stand in front of Sanford, my forearms cramping from how hard I'm squeezing the gun. I've used it multiple times at the shooting range. I know the weight, the texture, intimately.

Today it feels alien. Like I've never touched a gun before. I keep sliding my thumb along the hilt, then fingering the trigger, searching for it, forgetting where it is. The ringing in my ears makes my body seem light and far away.

Focus... focus...

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