The Drowning Child

33

Ren got back to the hotel at nine that night. She parked outside, closed her eyes and listened to the rain pounding on the roof, pouring down the windshield. She reached into the back seat and pulled her raincoat toward her. She struggled into it, and pulled the oversized hood up. She took a deep breath, opened the car door, and ran.

The Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door knob of her hotel room where she had left it that morning. She went inside, straight into the bathroom to hang up her coat. She glanced around. Her heart plunged.

Someone’s been in here. It smells different. It smells like man. And it hasn’t been serviced.

She looked at the space around the sink.

I did not leave my soap bag there.

She felt a spike of anxiety.

Paranoia.

No.

Someone was in here.

She went into the bedroom. In the shadows, she could see her suitcase, some notes, her file folders. She had left more notes out on the bed because she was running late. She had left the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

Like that’s a security measure.

Anyone could have been able to look at those notes.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She sat down on the bed and called Reception. She hung up before they answered.

Paranoia.

She was about to call Gary.

No way: he will kill you. She had done it before, and he went ballistic, bawled at her in front of everyone about running a command center out of her hotel room.

She called Reception again. ‘Hi there, it’s Ren Bryce in 310. Was anyone in my room today while I was out?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the receptionist.

Noooooo! How unbefuckinglievably unprofessional.

You’re the one who left your notes out.

It’s a small-town hotel... what did you expect? More! Always!

‘We’ve been having problems with some of the showers on your floor,’ said the receptionist. ‘I know yours has been working OK, but we had our plumber check them all. We just need to make sure everything is OK.’

Oh, thank God. ‘Would you mind letting me know the next time someone needs to access my room?’ said Ren. Because I can’t fucking stand my privacy being invaded. ‘And if you can’t reach me in my room, can you please call my cell phone before allowing anyone to come in?’

Or maybe I could tidy my stuff away...

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the receptionist. ‘I apologize for any inconvenience.’

Inconvenience... a great sweeping fuck of a word.

‘Could I get the name of the plumber?’ said Ren. Just in case...

Pause. ‘Sure... it’s J. J.’s Plumbing Services – J. J. Nash.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. She googled J. J. Nash on her phone. His company was five years old, based in Tate. His testimonials all ended with four and five stars. The photo was of a smiling but slightly sad-eyed man in his mid-twenties.

Move along, nothing to see here.

Ren still hadn’t turned on the lights in the bedroom. She stood up, made her way over to the window. The rain was relentless. She stood in the darkness, separated from the night by the icy glass. She started to unbutton her shirt.

Ben ripping my shirt off... losing my buttons.

Ben.

Ben.

Ben.

Tonight, it is just you.

I want you. I want your arms, your beautiful face. I want every part of you.

And I can’t have it. I can’t have it ever again.

She took off her shirt, threw it on the back of the chair. She unhooked her bra, threw it on top. She went to her bag and took out a faded black Dropkick Murphys T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front. She held it up to her face, breathed in.

Loser.

Don’t.

She put it on, looked at her reflection in the glass. She finished undressing, then pulled on a pair of loose black shorts that were shorter than the T-shirt. She tied her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her laptop, went over to the bed, lay down and curled toward the window to lose herself in the drenched and clouded world outside.

Her phone beeped with a text.

Go away.

She reached out, took the phone from the nightstand and pulled it toward her. She held it above her face, squinted at the screen. The text was from Paul Louderback.

She replied.

He replied:

Then:

Ren punched in:

She deleted it. And replied:

He typed back.

Sure you’re not just looking to get laid?

She sent:

I should just send him a text:

She touched her hand to her heart.

Ben Rader, I miss you so much.

Work. Forget.

She sat up, propped against the pillows and opened a photo of Caleb Veir.

Where are you? Did your daddy kill you? Did your mommy? Did you run from a home you didn’t love? Why did you fall out with your mother? Did she do something to you? Did your daddy come home after work, bitching about the inmates at BRCI, calling them psychos, or did he make sure they were humanized? You knew Seth Fuller had been at BRCI... did you allow him to befriend you to provoke your father? Did it provoke your father?

Were you a trusting kind of kid? Would an adult buying you comics and candy just seem like kindness to you, seem unthreatening? Or what if a man like Franklin J. Merrifield approached you? Would you have been afraid of him? Could he have mentioned your father to earn your trust? What made you afraid? Who made you afraid?

Ren opened a new document and started typing.

Ren’s eyes started to close.

It’s all too depressing.

Make it go away.