“Why didn’t I notice?”
I shrugged. “Why didn’t you notice a lot of things?”
“I have no idea,” he said, sounding dazed. “But it turns me on something wicked.”
I peeked at his lap as he parked the car and decided he wasn’t kidding.
Killing Time
With a snicker, I left him to wait the problem out.
The Chance I remembered didn’t suffer from inconvenient erections, nor did he get horny at inappropriate times. He planned lovemaking, all details in place for a perfect, civilized seduction, everything in its place, everything orchestrated. Me, I like a good bit of cloth ripping, panties on the lampshade, and some shouting before it’s over. He’d never gotten there with me, and I’d figured it was somehow my fault.
But I was done with that mentality.
I handled check-in while he unloaded the bags. Just as well because the woman’s Spanish was better than her English, even in Laredo. Chance came up to the counter just as I concluded the deal, and I passed him his key- card, taking a certain petty pleasure in his annoyance that I’d booked separate rooms. His jaw clenched when I blithely told him how much he owed but he forked over the money.
“Why are we here?” I asked as we walked. Reading his look, I clarified, “This motel. It doesn’t look like you, so there has to be a reason.”
It was a peeling pink stucco building, set amid an industrial area. The only other open business was the Denny’s next door. Everything else had shut down, installing gates and bars to keep kids from breaking in.
“You act like I’m an elitist snob or something. Maybe I’m being frugal.”
“You
Chance sighed. “I caught a peek at the file in Saldana’s office and I saw the address of the warehouse.”
That made sense. “So we have a reason for being in this neighborhood.”
He’d never have stayed here otherwise, and certainly not with his mom. Wherever they’d stayed, the room was long cleaned by now, and I couldn’t reasonably be expected to find anything. At the warehouse, though—well, they’d have probably taped it off as a crime scene, better safe than sorry. Blood made people twitchy.
I stepped into my room without enthusiasm. What they called a queen bed looked no more than full to me, and the mattress felt hard as brick. The room was decorated in vintage motel with a cheap orange spread and muddy paintings on the wall. Gazing at the pasteboard furniture, I felt a touch claustrophobic and hoped I wouldn’t have to spend much time here. Worse, it felt damp inside, so I flicked on the air con. In response, water immediately began to drip somewhere from the bathroom ceiling.
My backpack bounced on the bed where I tossed it, and I sank down beside it, unzipping the front pocket to delve beneath blouses and hair ties until I found what I was looking for. Cradling it in my hands, I studied the black pillow, no more than six inches wide and embroidered with white characters I couldn’t read. I traced them with a fingertip, remembering.
“I know what being with Chance can be like,” she’d said with a half smile. “So I’m giving you some luck of your own.”
She had, in a small way, stood in for my own mother, although Min always respected the half-step difference. She’d taught me to make the noodle soup Chance liked and she had a great laugh, really loud and infectious for such a small woman. Oh, Christ, and she was—
Neither of us held much hope we’d find her alive.
I clutched the pillow to my chest, finally letting loss sweep over me. Over the past day, I’d been keeping it at bay with various defenses, first focusing on him and then the trip. But now there was nothing but me and the stupid drip from the bathroom ceiling. My eyes welled up, and I felt the hot trickle down my cheeks. I wept silently, as I did the night I watched my mother burn.
“They’re coming,” she’d whispered, pushing me toward the back door. “You run to the black oak in the woods and stay there until morning, you hear me? Don’t you come back until the sun’s come up.”
I’d fought her. I wanted to stay. Even then, I thought I could make a difference. Maybe that’s why I’ve lived my life the way I have.
“If you love me, Corine, you go.”
I went.
Behind me, she’d begun a chant, the last one she’d ever speak. In the distance, I saw the scattered lights marching toward our house like a wicked firefly army. I don’t know if I knew what would happen then, but my whole world went up in flames.
No more would the hurdy-gurdy man come to supper at our house. Mama used to say his music was magical, and I think it surely was because none since then has sounded so sweet or lifted my spirits the way his harmonica did back then. We had a constant parade of visitors, some more amazing than others; Cherie Solomon never met a stranger.
I sat and rocked, fifteen years removed from that night, weighing it against this fresh loss. In the movies, Chance would have sensed my pain, come to offer me comfort, and everything in my world would’ve been made right. He would have held me as I did him the night I didn’t want him in my bed. In reality, I cried myself out alone and fell into a sleep that left me sticky and thick when I woke.
The room swam with shadows cut with light from the streetlamps and guttering neon from defunct businesses nearby. At first I wasn’t sure what had roused me, and then the knock came again. I felt wrinkles from the cheap bedspread imprinted on my cheek, and a glimmer of reflection from the window told me my hair was smashed flat on one side. I answered the door anyway.
“Get your stuff,” Chance said, low. “We can’t stay here.”
“What’s wrong?”
His tone alarmed me. “Just come on. Now.”
Acting on a type of trust I’d thought shattered forever, I grabbed my backpack and stuffed the handmade pillow inside. As I slid my shoes on and headed for the door, the streetlight sputtered and winked out. Chills rolled along my skin as I watched bulbs flicker and die all along the street. We stepped onto the dark lot, which suddenly seemed to me a cemetery of cars, so much dead, heavy metal.
We left the Toyota parked, his hand on my arm as he hurried me along. I knew the clammy sensation of dread on my skin, and the last time I’d felt this way I nearly died. Though I wanted to ask for answers, I was too frightened to do more than scuttle behind him. The dark buildings seemed sinister, unfriendly eyes peering from broken windows.
“Chance.” I didn’t dig in my heels as I spoke, kept moving. “What’s going on?”
“Did you call the cop?” he asked instead of answering me. “After we arrived. Did you tell him where we were?”
Watching the slow roil of darkness over this particular street, I shook my head. “No. I accidentally took a nap.”
“Then he’s not our problem.” He sounded almost disappointed.
“But we do have one.” It suddenly felt about ten degrees colder outside and that was more than just the sun going down.
“Yeah,” he said grimly. He laced his fingers through mine, not a romantic gesture but as if in preparation for a blizzard where we’d need a nonvisual link to make it across the street. “No matter what happens inside, don’t let go of me, Corine.”
My mouth felt dry. I wished I
We stopped behind a warehouse, the reason he’d chosen this neighborhood in the first place. It was a hulking structure with blank windows, no signs of life. There should have been a night watchman on duty, but at the moment it felt as though we were the only two human beings left in the world. The wind kicked up, sending trash skittering across the dead-quiet street. Something besides cloud cover blotted out the stars, and the air felt heavy as lead when I brought it to my lungs.
