Page 21 of Protecting His Finch

It’s been so quiet for so long, even her small voice sounds loud.

She knows the answer to this. But I play along. “Right.”

“And you’ve killed people.”

“Yes.”

“Is it normal to feel…empty? After?”

She’s in shock. Red taillights from the car in front of us cast an eerie glow across her face. Her expression is vacant. Lost.

“You did what you had to,” I remind her. “You were protecting yourself.”

She grips her arms.

I drive ten more minutes and then pull into the first gas station I find. “Wait here,” I tell her.

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I have nothing but hundreds stuffed in the envelope in my jacket. I take a few of them out and tuck them into my wallet before going into the station.

Better not to use my ATM card now. It’ll only leave a trace.

Inside, I buy two burner phones. A case of water. Two travel toothbrushes and toothpaste kits. Two packs of instant noodles. A bag of pretzels. A pack of gum.

I get back into the car, and we drive in silence for a while. The buildings start to vanish around us. Highway towns melt into dark, thick evergreen trees as we head north, deeper upstate.

Eventually, we stop at a place called Moonlight Motel. The sign has a cow on it, a dialogue bubble exiting the cow’s mouth and wrapping around the first three letters.

The branding seems excessive, but no one asked me.

I leave the car running and go to check in. When I enter, the door chime gives a motorized “mooing” sound.

The pimply faced attendant is overly excited for the business. I pay in cash, and he gives me a room key and two folded towels.

I unload the car. Along with my gas station load, I’ve got a gym bag in the trunk with a change of clothes. I take both inside.

Finley follows me. The room is a strange seashell pink, and it feels like being inside of a mouth. There are two twin beds and a television mounted on the dresser. A window overlooks the parking lot.

Finley stands in the middle of the room and stops, eyes vacant, like a zombie.

I close the door behind her, lock it. Then I shut the window blinds. Still, she doesn’t move.

“Are you hungry?” I ask her.

“Not really.”

I find a microwave plugged in under the TV and heat up the cup of noodles anyway. I put the cup in front of her with a plastic spork. We eat in silence around the small round table.

Halfway through her cup, I notice her picking at her shirt. There’s a small, browning mark on her chest.

I recognize it before she does.

“What the hell is this?” she asks, but then her voice trails off. “Oh.”

Blood. It’s Raphael’s blood.

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