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Is it possible Z is studying to be a doctor?
I reject the idea immediately, primarily because doctors don’t also have closets full of saws, knives, and acid hanging around in their bedroom.
He told me he’s just doing his job, but what the hell kind of job is this?
A pounding in the distance pulls my attention away from Z’s books. My pulse spikes as I try my best to push down my rising panic. Part of me wants to run and hide in the bathroom, but I force myself to go to the locked door, placing my ear to the barrier, hoping to pick up on the root of the loud bangs.
I don’t have to wait long as the knocking at a room just a few doors down resumes, this time with shouting.
“Come on, JV. You already missed the morning meeting. Your father is gonna string you up if you try to get out of our lunch meeting, too.” More fists pound on the door down the hall before the next round of shouting. “I don’t care how hungover you are, mother fucker! Answer the damn door!”
I may not know who’s shouting, but I know with great certainty JV isn’t going to be answering. Dread washes over me as I realize how fast my attacker is being missed, and it deepens when it dawns on me just how close his room is to Z’s.
The thirteenth floor. Invisible to most Whitney guests.
Z had assured me before he left that Katja and Dex were on their way back to New York. Depending on how late it was, they could be arriving soon, and I both looked forward to, and dreaded, Katja’s arrival.
How was I going to break the news to her that the man she loves is at the minimum interacting with criminals by hijacking an entire floor of her hotel, and at the worst, is a hardened criminal himself? It’s going to break my friend’s heart, but there is no way I can keep this a secret from Katja. She deserves to know the truth.
I relax slightly at the sound of the retreating steps in the hallway.
With little else to occupy myself, I resume my pacing and snooping, leafing through the catalog filled with all kinds of weapons and ammunition sitting on Z’s nightstand.
Time crawls by, amping up my anxiety until I throw the catalog aside and jump back up to my feet.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since dinner with Laura before we hit the clubs the night before. Based on the sun, it has to be getting close to lunchtime. Laura is probably blowing up my phone, wanting to know about brunch.
What I would give for a venti latte.
But I can’t even phone down to room service. There is no hotel house phone to be seen in Z’s room.
Feeling ready to jump out of my skin, I think about doing my morning yoga routine, but the room is too cramped, and my injured shoulder and hand remind me I’d better skip today.
Desperate for a distraction to keep my mind off the fact I killed a man last night, I resort to opening the drawers of the small desk in the corner of the room, looking for something more interesting to look at than the boring paperwork and receipts on top.
The top drawer is full of files, and I am about to close the drawer when I see a worn-leather ledger underneath the folders. Pulling it out, I flip through the first few pages and assume the handwritten scribbles are in a foreign language as they don’t make much sense. But as I flip a bit deeper, I start to see patterns emerging.
The dates are easy enough to figure out, yet it shocks me that the entries go back to the 90’s. Another column looks like names since I see a few Smiths and Wilsons among more complex names. The rest is much harder to decipher and all I can figure out is there is a pattern of symbols and abbreviations that must mean something to someone. I flip to the pages towards the back of the book where the writing stops. The handwriting is still messy, but the pages with more recent dates are clearly different.
Unable to glean much from the book, I finally put the ledger back where I found it before moving to the bottom drawer where I feel like I hit the jackpot.
It may suck, but I do take Z’s rules seriously and won’t communicate with anyone else until I can at least talk with Katja. But still, I pull out the laptop I find with glee, excited at the possibility to at least have something to distract me.
It becomes a moot point when I find the laptop locked and me without the password.
Returning to the bottom drawer, I pull out a thick manila folder and find this one full of old photographs. Sitting in Z’s chair, I peruse through the stack one by one.
