23. Michael

I pull the car into the parking lot of a run-down place called Motel 5. I think it's supposed to be a joke, one step below a Motel 6. But it's far worse than that. It's a long one-story building offering private entrances for each room. Several windowpanes are cracked, and the siding has been graffitied. I take the lot slowly, keeping my eyes peeled. People are camped out and strung out; some lean against the building, others are bent over, barely standing. Loud music blares from a couple of idled cars. Beefy men sit in the driver's seats, staring at the motel rooms in front of them like they're security, but I know the only thing they're securing is their illegal activities. I can't believe this is where my sister has been staying. Nicole points to the far left and tells me to park. I do as she says, even though I want to drive off and tell her I'll replace everything she's left here.

I park in front of the last motel room but keep the engine running.

"Want me to come in?" I ask.

Nicole's already stepping out of the car. "No, I'll just be a minute," she says, slamming the door behind her.

I look off to the right, making sure no one is approaching. The strung-out ones couldn't if they tried. Their movements are slow, almost zombielike. My eyes go to the vehicle parked twenty yards away. The burly man sitting in the driver's seat glances in my direction. He nods, but I know it's not a friendly nod.

The motel room door Nicole's standing at opens six inches or so, and she quickly slips inside.

I sit and wait in silence. The seconds morph into minutes and then it starts to feel like a long time has passed, but maybe it just feels that way in a place like this. I hear a noise, first a loud thud, then yelling. It's muffled but is undeniably the sounds of anger and fear helixing around one another. Something crashes inside of the motel room. I rip the car door open and sprint toward it. I can hear the words being yelled clearly now.

"Where's the money, you stupid bitch!"

"I don't have any money!"

"That stupid dead mother of yours didn't have anything valuable in her house either. So, the real question is, how are you gonna get me my fucking money!"

I drop my shoulder into the center of the door without even thinking and charge forward. The slam of the knob piercing drywall puts a punctuation on the room and for a moment, time freezes. A man stares back at me as he hovers over my sister on the bed. One hand around her shirt collar, the other raised in the air with limitless possibilities, all of them bad. Then it's as if someone pressed Play on a remote control. The hard sound of a hand slapping across a face brings us all back into motion.

There's no time for words. No reasoning with a man like this. The good news is that he looks just as strung out as Nicole at her worst—gaunt, weak, shaking for the fix he has yet to find. My mind goes blank, and I begin to run.

I plow through him and send him flying off the bed, into the wall. I run over and grab his collar, just like he was doing to Nicole and raise my fist, slamming it into his face. First his cheek, then his forehead, then his eye, then I break his nose and the blood pours like I turned on a faucet. He gags, spitting blood onto my clothing, and I can only imagine the sick and vile things swimming around his bodily fluid. I punch again, this time knocking his teeth in. He's barely conscious when I stop.

Getting to my feet, I turn to Nicole who is stricken with fear and shame. My heart is racing, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins so fast that I don't feel anything at the moment. I'm sure I broke bones in my hand or, at the very least, severely bruised it, but nothing registers except the crumpled form of my sister, sobbing on the bed.

"How much do you owe him?"

Nicole looks up, bewildered that this is the question I ask first.

"Five hundred dollars," she manages to choke out through tears and sucking breaths.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. It's a beautiful piece from Hermès, calfskin, handmade in France. It's worth more than the money Nicole owes this piece of shit. I take out a wad of cash and throw it at his battered face. Some of it sticks to the blood that has pooled around his nose and mouth.

"Here. Now she owes you nothing," I say, crouching down. I put my lips near his ear and whisper, "If you come near my sister again, next time I won't stop. Do you understand?"

He nods and moans.

"Good."

I stand again and kick him in the ribs just to make sure he truly understands. It sounds like a child breaking a stick over their knee. He sucks in a high-pitched squeal as he rolls over on his side.

I help Nicole, and she sobs as we walk out of the motel room, back into the light of the world. Opening the passenger door, I help guide her into her seat.

"I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I reassure her.

"I'm not strong enough," she sobs.

"Yes, you are."

Nicole lifts her head. "Thank you..." Her eyes say more than that, and I know exactly what she is thanking me for.

"Please don't tell Beth about this," she adds.

"I won't."

I close her door, hop in the driver's seat, and put the car in Reverse. As I begin to accelerate out of the parking lot, I turn to look at the man sitting in the dark SUV. He smiles and lifts his chin. This time, I know it's friendly.