The silence that follows my question is enough of an answer so even before Miko says, “Maybe, just an hour or two, until she’s a bit calmer.” I have already decided to go.
“Of course,” I say. “Do you need anything?”
They both shake their heads. I stand and pick up my bag, finding my phone and wallet and sliding both in my jeans’ pockets.
“Sorry, Loncey,” Miko says as I start to walk toward the door. I look back and see them tangled in each other’s arms and then look down at the floor.
“Sure,” I reply. “I’ll text and check how you’re both doing in an hour or so.”
And then I leave. But I don’t go far. I take a moment to lean against the closed door and sigh. The anger that was pulsing through my body has now dulled to a simmering rage that doesn’t make me want to hit or kick something but rather, it makes me want to burn everything down. Because it’s a deep and desperate, all-encompassing hopelessness. I feel powerless. I feel like nothing I do will make this go away like Harley wants. And I hate that feeling.
I can at least help her by giving them space. I can also give them the hotel room for the next few days. Yes, I will go back in an hour or so and I will pick up all my bags and I’ll head back home. I’ll navigate the traffic to go to the shoot tomorrow, then Maeve’s keynote speech the day after and that’s all I really need to be around for. I was only half-interested in the networking events and I’d much rather be useful at home, keeping Jessica company and being around to make her and Mom food, even though I’ve already left the fridge full for them.
With something like a plan in mind, I decide to go down to the lobby. I’ll pass the time answering comments and DMs and also call Mom and Jessica to make sure they’re okay.
And maybe I can also do some research to find another investigator, someone who can find out who’s been sending Harley these threats and sick, sick photoshopped images that are impossible to forget no matter how hard you try.
That’s what I start to do as I descend the elevator, opening up my phone and going through the first page of search results that show up. I don’t look up again until the elevator makes a pinging noise and the doors open.
Except we’re not at the hotel lobby. There’s a figure waiting for the lift and I look up briefly to see we’ve gone up, not down, to the 18th floor. I look back at the person waiting to get in and I see a tall, slim feminine figure dressed in tight yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. There’s long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that sticks out of a baseball cap that has been fixed low on their head, hiding most of their features – a narrow nose, pink pouting lips and distinguishably pointed chin – except it’s not enough to hide who I’m looking at.
It’s Maeve.
Her green eyes – a bottomless bottle-green that’s almost luminescent in the artificial lighting above us – widen as they land on me, and I know she recognizes me too. I open my mouth to say hello, and I think she does the same, but then her lips snap shut, and she turns and runs.
Maeve runs away from me.
I step out of the lift, following her, and turn the corridor to see her form flying away from me.
“Maeve!” I call out.
What the fuck?
I know I shouldn’t chase her. I know what it will look like. I know what the potential consequences could be. So I don’t run after her, but I do watch her go.
It’s a long-ass corridor and Maeve has made some progress down it, but there’s still a dead end ahead. She has to stop there at the very least, unless…
She stops at a door about thirty feet ahead of me, digs into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and retrieves a keycard.
“Maeve! Wait up,” I say, and I start walking toward her.
She gives me a nervous look as she holds the keycard to the door and then pushes down on the handle.
“Maeve!” I try again. “It’s me, Loncey.”
“No… just no!” is all she says before she opens the door, slips inside and slams it shut.
Confused and too damn curious for my own good, I walk to the door.
“Maeve,” I say loudly enough for my voice to travel through the door. I laugh a little, hoping that shows her my intentions are entirely innocent. “What the fuck was that?”
I don’t expect an answer. The woman just ran away from me at high speed. The last thing I expect is an answer to a very rhetorical question. But she does respond.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I pull back, astonished to hear her voice so clearly through the door. She must be right on the other side.
“I told you I’d be staying in the same hotel,” I say.
