Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

ZAIN

Sleep is impossible, and I give up after a couple of hours of staring at the ceiling, and go back into the suite's main room. The bag containing everything I'd had on me before being imprisoned is sitting where I left it on the table, the television remote beside it. I reach for the controller, and stab at the power button with one finger. The TV screen brightens, and voices come from the speakers. I lower the volume down to a respectable level for this hour, then pick up the bag, sit on the couch, and empty the contents onto my lap.

Two sets of keys, a half-empty packet of cigarettes, fifty dollars and change, a polaroid photograph, a stick of gum, and my cell phone.

I toss the keys onto the table, put the cash in my new wallet, and throw the cigarettes into the trash can. One good thing about being incarcerated, I guess. I no longer smoke.

Leaving the photograph face down, I put it on the cushion beside me, and pick up the cell phone. I know it's not going to turn on. Not after this long. The battery will be long dead. But I can't stop myself from trying anyway, and there's still a surge of disappointment when it stays dead. Maybe I can find a charger that works with it.

Why do you want to torture yourself with what you'll find on it?

I shove that question away, and look down at the back of the photograph. I don't need to flip it over to know what I'll see. I kept the photograph in my wallet. We all had one. Three of the same pose.

A reminder of a more innocent time.

The date scrawled across the back in faded black marker is six months prior to Jason and Louisa's death. Heart in my throat, I flip it over … and stare down at the younger versions of myself, Louisa, and Jason.

Louisa is in the center, and we both have our arms across her shoulders. We look happy, carefree, and ridiculously young.

My stomach twists, bile rising, but I swallow it down and force myself to look closer at the image.

Louisa is wearing a summer dress. Her favorite one, covered in sunflowers. Jason is wearing my jacket. He'd grabbed it off the back of the couch as we all ran for the door, late for class. I stroke a finger over the laughing faces.

We'd stopped for lunch at one of the college cafes and begged some random guy outside to take three photographs, so we could have one each. Six months later, they were both dead, I was found covered in their blood, without anyone who could confirm where I was when they were slaughtered.

No alibi. Covered in blood. And a witness who saw me standing over their bodies .

I toss the photograph onto the table, push to my feet, snatch up my wallet, and head for the door. I promised Peter I wouldn't leave the hotel. I said nothing about leaving the suite.

The security guard straightens when I open the door.

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm going down to the bar. You can stay here or join me, but you're not stopping me." I wait for him to refuse to let me leave.

"Not my job to stop you, sir. I'm just here to keep you safe. The hotel bar is open twenty-four hours. It's located on the third floor."

He falls into step beside me and we walk to the elevator, and ride it down to the third floor. The doors open opposite the entrance to the bar, and he drops to walk behind me, making it look like we're both alone.

The lighting is subdued, and there are a few people scattered around cradling drinks. I give the bartender my room number, open a tab, and order a whiskey chaser, then take both glasses to an empty table at the far side of the room, away from anyone else.

I lift the glass of whiskey.

"This is for you guys," I murmur, and knock it back.

I don't give it a chance to burn its way down my throat, snatching up the beer and draining half of it. The hit is immediate, going straight to my head. I flatten my palms against the table top and close my eyes while I wait for it to settle, then I signal to the bartender to bring me another.

By the third, I'm feeling a slight buzz. The tip of my nose is numb, and everything is a little blurry, but my mind has stopped spinning memories of better days around my head. It's a fair trade .

After my fifth, I can feel myself becoming drowsy. My eyes are heavy, and I think I can sleep, so I weave my way back to the elevator, not bothering to check if the guard is following me. He slips through the doors just before they close, and we go back up to my floor, where I stumble to my room, through the door, and pass out on the couch.

When I next open my eyes, it's to someone hammering nails through my head. Drinking so much, especially after years of forced abstinence means my alcohol tolerance is low. I hadn't considered that, and I really don't like how I feel. But on the flipside, I slept more than a couple of hours.

Rolling off the couch, I take a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and drain half of it. I'm not sure the hours of sleep I got is worth the pounding headache and dry mouth. I guess, along with cigarettes, I've lost the taste for alcohol. And maybe, it's better that way. If I don't get drunk, I can't do stupid things, and I won't end up back behind bars.

I take a shower to freshen up, luxuriating in the heat and power of the water, then pick out some fresh clothes, and pack the rest in the suitcase Peter supplied. I'm ready and waiting when the driver knocks at the door. I open the door to a tall man, dressed in a suit and sunglasses.

"Mr. Ryder? I'm here to take you to Whitstone."

I grab the suitcase and computer bag and step out, sliding sunglasses onto my face. The security guard from the night before has gone.

The driver looks down at the suitcase. "Can I take that for you? "

I shake my head. "I've got it."

"What about the computer bag?"

"It's fine. I can manage."

"Mr. Longeaton asked me to tell you the hotel room is paid for, so we can avoid going to the check out desk. So, if you'll follow me, I'll take you down to the car."

We head down to the underground parking lot, where he leads me to a nondescript black car. Opening the trunk, he takes my suitcase and places it in, then moves around to the side to open the back passenger door. While I'm getting settled, he climbs into the front, and starts the engine.

"There's bottled water in the mini-fridge just under the seat."

"Thanks."

"If you need anything, just open the privacy screen." He pushes a button and the screen slides up, separating us.

I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes. It's going to take a couple of hours to get to Whitstone. The best thing I can do right now is to try and sleep away the hangover, and get ready to face whatever is going to be waiting for me when I arrive.