Page 134 of Over Her Dead Body

The room key sits on the counter between my bloody hands.

I pick it up and head for the elevator.

The doors open onto a mirrored wall.

I look like a doll a child got tired of playing with halfway through an experiment.

One shoulder of my dress is torn nearly to the waist. My hair is half out of whatever shape it started the evening in. My eyes are red and swollen. There is blood under my nose, down one wrist, and across the front of a dress I bought approximately twelve hours ago.

I am barefoot.

Lisbon has been expensive.

The elevator opens.

I go to my room.

My bag is beside the desk.

I dump it onto the bed.

Passport.

Wallet.

Charger.

I pull off the dress.

The clothes I wore to Lisbon are still folded over the chair. The pants have a torn knee. The shirt has dried blood on one sleeve.

At this point, they qualify as formalwear.

My flats are underneath.

Even better.

I pull everything on.

In the bathroom, I run water over my face until I can keep my eyes open without wanting to claw them out.

Thirty seconds.

Maybe forty.

Enough.

I shove the passport, wallet, and charger into my bag and leave.

The receptionist is waiting when the elevator opens, a towel in one hand and a first-aid kit in the other.

I take the towel. The first-aid kit suggests a level of commitment I don’t have time for.

I wrap the towel around my left hand on the way outside.

The car is still there, but the driver looks considerably less committed to our arrangement than he did five minutes ago.

He lowers the window a few inches. “How much cash?”