Page 87 of Open Secrets
I shrug. “He was worried about real things. Felt stupid to talk about feelings.”
Her voice gentles, but it’s steady. “Couples that talk about feelingsandreal stuff? Those are the ones that stick. Trust me. I’d know.”
I glance at her. “How’s everything at home?”
She leans her head against the window. “Lizzie’s dad is back.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
She nods, lips pressing thin. “Yeah. Has a girlfriend and all. Apparently,theywant to be in her life now.”
“Is this the same one he cheated on you with?”
She laughs without humour. “God, no. Probably the tenth one after her. She won’t last either. They never do.”
I pull into the parking garage and put the car in park. “Hey. I’m here whenever you need to talk.”
Her hand covers mine where it rests on the gearshift, a rare moment of gratitude. “Thanks. Now let’s go in before you lose your nerve.”
“It’s weird,” I mutter once we step into the lobby, my tote strap sliding down my shoulder. “Walking into a hotel in broad daylight with no bags. Nothing to signal I belong here.”
“You don’t need a bag,” Debra says. “You need a face that saysdo not fuck with me.Which you have.”
“That doesn’t stop the little panic in my skull that someone’s going to look at us and think:trouble.”
But no one does. The bell staff smiles blandly, the person behind the counter nods as we walk by. Everyone glides by with professional indifference. And somehow that’s worse—this quiet, practiced way people pretend not to see the violence that ruins lives.
Debra walks me toward the elevators. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
The elevator dings, doors sliding open with a hush.
Debra winks. “If you choke her, do it quietly.”
“You remember what I said about dignity?” I hiss.
“Right, right.” She smirks. “We’ll call it a decorous homicide.”
I press the button before she can make any more suggestions.
The ride is short, but thankfully silent. My stomach still knots itself tighter with every passing second.
When the doors open, I step out into the corridor. The carpet swallows the sound of my boots, muting everything except the thud of my pulse in my ears.
Room 201 waits at the end of the hall, brass numbers gleaming under the sterile hotel lights.
I glance back at Debra. She’s leaning casually against the wall by the elevator like she’s just waiting on a friend, but her eyes meet mine. She makes a little hand gesture—fingers miming a phone.
I nod once, sliding mine from my bag. One press of the screen, and it starts recording. Insurance.
I slip it back into my pocket and step up to the door, raising my fist. My knuckles hover for a beat—one last chance to walk away—before I force them down.
The knock echoes louder than I expect.
Less than ten seconds later, the door swings open.
There she is. A very obviously pregnant chick in a bath robe. Not what I expected, she’s my age but in other ways the complete opposite.
