Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
He has to know she was in DC because she used her personal credit card, and if he's tracking her spending, then he's tracking her vehicle as well. So, with a little encouragement on my part, she left her cell phone and the entire contents of her purse, other than the things required to get on a plane and a few changes of clothes from her hotel room, behind.
Landing goes off without a problem because she fell asleep not fifteen minutes after her drink order was rejected. It killed me to watch the softness on her face transform, and it was nearly unbearable to watch a tear leak from her closed eye. Even in her sleep, she can't seem to escape the sadness.
***
"This isn't going to be what you're used to," I say when the cab pulls up outside of the hotel. "But we'll be safe here."
I hold out a ten to the man who opened her door before waiting for him to pull luggage from the trunk of the cab.
He thanks me as I press my palm to her back and urge her to enter the lobby of the hotel.
"I'm not some snobby bitch," she mutters, making me realize that she may not be flat-out drunk, but she isn't exactly sober either.
I bypass the front desk. Max made reservations, and in his infinite skill set, he has managed to send some form of Bluetooth code to my phone that will enable me to open the hotel room door without having to make contact with any staff.
That's a nifty little trick I haven't had access to even with ICE.
"We didn't get a key," she says once the elevator doors close. "Do you have a fuck-pad here?"
"A what?" I ask.
She waves her hand as if dismissing me. "Ignore me. I read it in a book."
I tilt my head as the doors open up on the fifth floor.
I want to ask her what kind of books she reads, but I have to refocus on turning her in the right direction when she begins to go left.
Getting into the room with the code on my phone works just as well as a keycard would have. The room, although a suite, is nothing like the one she had in DC. This is more for a family on vacation with its two separate bedrooms and the small common area attached to the kitchenette. Honestly, it's bigger than the studio apartment Cerberus put me up in, although the apartment has a few better amenities.
"Which room do you want?" I ask.
"Either," she says as she focuses on the sofa.
I know if she makes it to the couch, it'll be impossible to get her back up, so I turn her toward the bedroom to the left. She complained earlier about her back hurting, and that sofa doesn't look like it'll be comfortable to even sit on much less sleep off her white wine buzz.
"Can you call for turndown service?" she asks, her words a little slurred.
"No need," I say, reaching down and pulling back the blanket and top sheet. "It's done."
"There's more to it than that," she mutters, but doesn't stop her momentum moving forward.
She sits on the bed, her pretty face devoid of any makeup. She went into the bathroom at the apartment and came out with a fresh face that did nothing to hide the trauma she'd just gone through.
Her eyes remain bloodshot, her cheeks red and blotchy. I can't help but wonder if she's going to regret going out in public the way she did but, honestly, it's only natural for her thoughts to be elsewhere.
Plus, she’s gorgeous either way. I imagine she'd argue with me, not realizing it's the misogyny she's lived with all her life that has formed her opinions about how a woman should present themselves.
"This room isn't so bad," she says as she lies back, her hands floating over the sheet.
I pull her shoes off her feet a second before she tucks them under the blanket and then tug the top sheet and blanket over her body.
"Tomorrow will be a better day," she whispers. "Promise."
I don't argue with her, but I know for a fact that tomorrow will not be a better day. Tomorrow, we meet with someone about her sister's case. Although I told her that Sadie was murdered, I failed to mention that there was a calling card left behind by a serial killer hitman that several governmental agencies have spent the better part of a decade trying to track down.
I leave the bedroom, but not before moving the trash can closer to her. I don't know if she's the type to get over a binge drinking session by getting sick, but I know she has enough guilt over what has happened and she doesn't need it piled on by making a mess in the room.