Nodding, I rush out of the building.
41
Isabelle
Megan fights the bouncer for nearly twenty minutes before she gives in and walks back to her compact yellow car. Her steps are slow, and her shoulders are slumped in defeat.
I stab the key into the ignition. Brandon's car roars to life, startling me. Its engine is a lot bigger than I am used to driving; plus it is a stick shift. I was taught to drive an automatic, but this is the only car I have access to, and I will not lose the opportunity to follow Megan because I can't drive a stick.
The instant Megan pulls her car onto the road, I merge Brandon’s car into the heavy traffic. Several motorists honk their horns, annoyed I pulled out without signaling.
Metal grinding together roars through my ears when I forgot to place in the clutch before shifting the gearstick.
I crunch through my first gear change. “Shit, sorry Brandon.”
My knuckles go white from my determined hold of the steering wheel; my heart palpitates so fast, I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack, and the gnawing pit in my chest is nearly crippling me. Even being riddled with fear, my urge to protect Isaac outweighs my panic.
Other than hearing my madly beating heart, my drive across town is made in silence. I follow Megan close enough I won’t lose her in the dense traffic; but not close enough for her to become suspicious.
When she pulls into an old rundown motel on the outskirts of town, I park Brandon’s car into the curb at the front of a McDonald's restaurant.
A large droplet of water splats the windshield, followed by another, and then another. In no time at all, my view of the hotel is clouded by a sheet of water. Pulling my jacket over my head to shelter myself from the heavy pelts of rain, I peel out of Brandon’s car. Once the street is clear of traffic, I run across the road and seek cover under the rusted hotel awning.
My fear surges when Megan emerges from a room two doors down from where I'm standing. She is mumbling under her breath. Because she is so focused on her tirade, she doesn't notice me hiding under the awning. She jumps into her car and reverses dangerously. Her vehicle whizzes out of the hotel parking lot so fast, she’ll be long gone by the time I scamper back to Brandon's car.
My eyes survey the area. Because of the pelting rain, most hotel guests have congregated inside. I walk toward the room Megan just exited. My steps are so nerve-wracking, my legs shake uncontrollably. Once I’m sure no one is watching me, I crouch down onto the ground and try to jimmy the lock.
“Come on,” I say breathlessly.
After two long, panicked minutes, I still haven’t picked the lock. This latch is, of course, more technical than the locks I trained on.
Gritting my teeth, I ram the door as hard as possible with my right shoulder. Pain shoots up my arm so fast, tears sting my eyes. Even grimacing in pain, a grin curves on my mouth. My harsh hit on the door was successful, and it swings open with the tiniest creak.
After darting my eyes around the area, I walk into Megan’s hotel room, closing the door behind me. The room is spotlessly clean with a pungent aroma of disinfectant and bleach. From the two stars on the sign hanging at the front of the hotel, I’d say it is Megan who keeps this room so sparkly and hygienic.
The bed has been perfectly made to where you could bounce a nickel off it. She has replaced the standard hotel bedding with a more elaborate love heart quilt. My heart plummets into my stomach when I notice a crib set up in the room.
Is Megan pregnant? Oh god, please don’t let it be Isaac’s baby.
Snubbing the queasiness swirling in my stomach, I head for the only desk in the room. My fear that Megan is indeed pregnant surges when I spot several textbooks on pregnancy and medical procedures stacked on a crumbling shelf above the desk.
Grabbing a wad of tissues out of a box to cover my fingerprints, I yank down the first lot of books. My eyes filter down to a picture that slipped out of a pregnancy pamphlet from an obstetrician’s office in Ravenshoe. My breathing halts when I flip the photo over. It is an ultrasound picture of a distinguishable fetus. With the details of the baby’s face so prominent, Megan must be over six months pregnant, which is surprising, considering she didn’t have a bump on her medium frame.
Swallowing to eliminate the lump lodged in my throat, I slip the photo back into the pamphlet, then place it in its rightful spot on the shelf.
Ignoring my hammering heart, my eyes appraise the spotless room. Other than a bed, desk, chair, and a baby crib, the room is empty. I make my way to the only other door in the room other than the entrance door.
"Holy shit.” My voice trembles.
Every surface of the bathroom is covered with a range of different size photos. Most are of a heavily pregnant female with strawberry blonde hair. In multiple images, she has her eyes gouged out and trails of blood streaming down her legs. Moving deeper into the room, I spot a handful of photos of a blonde gentleman who appears to be in his early twenties.
Adjusting my eyes to the flicking fluorescent light, my breath traps in my throat. The gentleman in the photo is Isaac’s brother Nick. Although I’ve never met him, I can recognize him from the numerous photos Isaac has of him on his living room mantel.
Megan isn’t after Isaac; she wants Nick?
Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I collect digital evidence in case these documents get destroyed before the investigation team arrives. Some photos have “I hate her” and “She must die” scribbled over the female’s face and torso.
Once I've taken numerous pictures of the incriminating evidence, I walk back into the main room. My heart stops beating, closely followed by my steps. Megan is walking into the main entranceway, her gaze focused on a magazine in her hand. Her grin makes the contents of my stomach lurch into my throat. I pace backward, praying she can't hear my ragged breaths.
