Page 5 of Dark Ugly Places

“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up.”

“Where? On TikTok?”

I smirk.

Shannon takes her seat and fishes a Starbucks sandwich out of her bag. Nubia’s eyes narrow. “You know we dock your pay each time you’re late, right? You lose money. That’s why you have a job, right? To make money?”

Shannon’s eyes get big. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, but listen, you’re never going to believe who is staying here.”

Nubia turns away and rolls her eyes like she’s seen a million Shannons in the last ten years since she’s been here, each one the same, like the job is only a suggestion from their parents who clearly pay for everything anyway.

“I told you a hundred times, don’t worry about who is staying here,” Nubia says and puts her headset back on. “Just do your job.”

I can hear Shannon chewing. “Trust me, you’re going to want to know about this one,” she calls back. “He’s a big name.”

“Ay, Dios mío,” Nubia mutters. She swivels. “You know this is LA, right? There are going to be celebrities around. Okay, mija?”

Shannon turns halfway. “Celebrities like Jason Redfern?”

Nubia turns back to her. “Oh yeah? The hot one with the blonde wife? The model?”

Shannon smiles. “Yep. Amber at the front desk told me. Says he’s filming The Hurting Game with Lauren LaMonte. Apparently, he checked in last night. And he wasn’t alone.”

“I didn’t see his name on the reservations list,” I say.

When I look down, my purse is open, and the muffins are staring at me, smushed through the napkin against my wallet, flat as pancakes. My stomach groans.

“They never book under their own names,” Nubia answers. “Not the really big ones like Jason Redfern.”

“And he wouldn’t, would he? Not after what happened last week.”

I look from Shannon to Nubia. “Why, what happened?”

Shannon turns to me. “His co-star LaMonte put out a tweet that has everyone freaking out. Something about how art mirrors real life, and the sex scenes in the film weren’t choreographed. They were real.”

“And?” Nubia asks. “So what if they are? All actors have sex with each other. Everyone knows that.”

Shannon shakes her head. “Yeah, but they say the sex scenes are really violent.”

“Violent how?” I ask as a call comes in and the little red light on my desk phone starts blinking. I clear my throat and put on my headset. “Thank you for calling the Whitmore Beverly Hills. How can I make your day?”

I spend the morning entering reservations into the system from budget websites. After a while, my brain starts tracking backward, away from this hotel, away from Shannon and Nubia, and away from the small, dim office with jaundice-yellow light and no windows, where the three of us sit all day long. Some part of me can’t quite get here, like I’m still in my high-rise office, with stock options, a 401K, a six-figure salary, and an actual title that I’m proud to have on my LinkedIn. Like we’re still living in our big, gorgeous house. Like our family is still whole. But that’s not me now. That was before …

My throat tightens, and suddenly my entire body feels constricted. The palms of my hands turn clammy, and I clutch the edges of my chair, trying to prevent the panic rising within me, as if my entire world is spinning, spinning, spinning out of control. I’m falling into a dark place, ruminating on the day of the accident, and getting stuck there. I see the details, one by one …

White body …

Don’t think about it.

Screeching tires …

Don’t go back there.

The blood-coated asphalt …

Breathe. Breathe.

The terrible sound of Emmy screaming …