I don’t recall closing the distance or deciding to reach out, just that suddenly my hand was on her, half-soothing and half to tilt her head back toward the light for a better look.
The scratch was especially deep along her face, drawing down and skipping part of her neck before it petered out, skin fraying at its edges.
“Did he do this to you?” I asked. I sounded strange, even to my own ears, a forced calm that betrayedeverythingbeneath it—the hurt and fear and so much anger.
“Yes,” she said simply, then looked away. “But only … during.”
Ah. I couldn’t fault him that then, I suppose. But I looked at her, and I did, I very much did fault him. I was glad he was dead.
“Alright,” I said, forcing my hand down—I hadn’t realized I’d still been holding her. “Before we do anything else we need to clean your room.”
I expected questions, not least thewhys that we were dodging.Why did she do this? Why was I helping?
(Because it was Harper.It was the only answer I could muster, even if it only demanded more questions of me. Because it was this girl everything pivoted around, and I couldn’t lose her.)
But she didn’t ask. She just nodded and said “okay.”
———
Walking into the room didn’t unravel her further. She was methodical, almost robotic, pulling out towels without comment and doing anything I said without complaint.
I flipped that sheet back and met Joel’s sightless eyes.
It took some maneuvering to get him in the garment bag.
“He’d hate this,” Harper said suddenly, as she heaved to get the zip closed around his shoulders. “He’d ask if we had an Umbro bag. McQueen’s not really his style.”
Oh thank god, the bitch was back.
Her comment startled me so that I nearly dropped the edges of the bag, which I was holding taut for her to zip. But I clutched it tight and said: “All things considered, I doubt it would be his first complaint.”
With a final tug, she had it zipped entirely.
We put the bag in his suitcase. It was one of those ludicrously large ones sportsmen use—like Joel might have had to carry his own footballs (maybe even his owngoalfrom the size of the damn thing). Even so, the zip would not close completely so we had to place Harper’s handbag on top to cover the bump of his head poking through. The case was so heavy that the wheels threatened to crack as we pushed it to the edge of the room. But with the body gone, the mess was all the more apparent.
The cleaning cupboard was locked so I went to the front desk and breathed a sigh of relief that it was manned by, well, a man. He looked tired with the late hour and appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, which I took as a bonus.
“Good evening,” I said, racing up to the desk quickly and keeping my head down.
“Evening, miss—Oh, god. How … how can I help”
Ah, so he recognized me, delightful.
“I’m so sorry this is so embarrassing,” I babbled, really hamming up the distressed woman act. “But do you have any cleaning products I—”
“I can have a cleaner sent to your room if you—”
“No, no please. I just … I started my period, and it’s ruined the dress I was wearing, which I have to return to the designer and—”
“We offer full dry-cleaning services, you can just—”
“No! Please, please,” I let a tear fall. “I can’t have it cleaned, the designers have to do that, but I can’t bear to return it like it is, or give it to anyone else and I just … Please, if the press find out I’ll—”
Somehow, that was the part that did it—the idea of leverage at worst and holding some sort of shared secret at best.
“Don’t worry, here—there’s a cleaning cupboard next to the lift on every floor. Take the key and bring it back when you’re done.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you.” My eyes dropped to his name tag. “David, you’ve saved my life.”
