The Blonde

2:48 and 30 seconds

Sheraton, Room 702

Jack Eisley rolled over to drape his arm around Theresa, like he did every morning to see if she was awake yet. But his hand dropped straight down to the mattress. Funny—the mattress was rock-hard.

His eyes popped open. Short-term memories rushed back: drinks, blonde, cab ride, hotel room, Mary Kates, San Diego …

You’ll be joining the dead, all because you kissed me. No, not because of that. Because you kissed me and you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me novo, Jack?

“You okay, buddy?”

Jack rolled over to the other side. His neck and head were throbbing.

Oh, man …

It was the hotel security guy, on his knees next to Jack. This guy was just waking up, too. The black name tag pinned to the man’s uniform read VINCENT. Was that a first name or a last?

“Look, stay right here. I’m going to get us some help.”

Jack nodded, but he heard faint alarm bells go off somewhere. In the hotel? No. It was more a tingling sensation. A high-pitched tone, like an audio test from grade school. Tones, cycling higher and higher, clunky headphones pasted over your ears, school nurse asking you to raise your hand if … No.

Wait.