Page 14 of Dark Ugly Places

When I wake, I know I’m still in the hotel, but I’m not where I should be. I recognize the gray-patterned carpet, the light washing over the walls, the subtle blues and beiges of the furnishings in the guest rooms.

I shouldn’t be here.

My hands raise, shaking, a smear of blood on my fingers, my palm. The room swirls around me in a haze. At the window, I look out and see the city, small and glimmering. I dart to the phone on the desk and spot the room number.

1114.

Jason Redfern’s room.

“No, no, no, no,” I say, my voice small and panicked. Nubia’s key is in my pocket.

My heart pounds as I grab two bottles of water and a newspaper from the desk and turn to leave.

Stop. Find it.

“I can’t be here,” I whisper, my voice faint. “I need to leave. Now.”

Find it.

The room is disheveled, the bed unmade, a room service tray on the floor, expensive-looking clothes strewn over the furniture, a designer bag open on the desk. Before I can think about what I’m doing, my hands are searching through it. I find Louis Vuitton aftershave, workout gear, a toiletry bag monogrammed with J.R, and a wallet, the touch of the black leather smooth in my hands.

Inside, his driver’s license and home address peek out from one of the folds. I pry it out of the leather with shaking hands. My eyes fixate on the address: 1900 North Alpine Drive. Beverly Hills, CA.

It would be so easy to take a picture. Just snap it. Done. Right here. Then I’d have him. But I freeze, my heart pumping in my chest. I can’t do it.

A flash of heat from within as the familiar voice returns. But you’re close. So close.

“Close to what?” I answer.

Close to the truth.

My heart races as I quickly snap a picture with my phone and stow the license and wallet back in the bag.

From outside, voices approach. My spine straightens as I hear the tiny click of the lock opening. Looking around, I see nowhere for me to go. The bathroom and closet are on the opposite side of the room. I’ll never make it.

Footsteps near, and the voices grow louder.

I want to disappear, but I can’t. They’re going to find me.

The door swings open, and Jason Redfern enters with a tall brunette woman, slender and chic. It’s the actress, Lauren LaMonte. She sees me first, her expression shifting from alarm to anger. Jason turns, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”

My breath escapes me.

Redfern’s face contorts. “Fucking thief. I’m calling security.”

Before I can protest, he’s on the phone. LaMonte glares at me like I’m garbage. In moments, two security staff enter and come straight for me. It happens so fast, there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can explain.

Inside, the voice returns.

Relax. You’ve got what you came here for.

I back away from them as the two burly security guards muscle me to my knees. My face hits the floor, and the stiff carpet burns against my cheek. They grab me and yank me up but restrain me at the same time. My head snaps back as they hold me tautly under the arms, and one says loudly, “Sorry about this, Mr. Redfern. We’ve got her.”

My body collapses beneath me, and they hold me, fully restrained, like I have a gun. “Easy,” one of them says. “We need you to be nice and still.”

The other starts searching me, breathing heavy, his hands rough on my body as he pats me down. My arms ache where they hold me. They hustle me toward the door. I glance back one last time, catching Redfern in my periphery.

Downstairs, the security guards take me into the back room and release me into a chair. My legs are rubbery, my back hot with sweat. I realize I’m panting. They search me for stolen jewelry and cash, then empty the contents of my purse and my bag onto a long table. I cringe as my pills spill out—Imitrex, Topamax, and painkillers all over the place.