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My father takes the key, and we turn around and head for the door he mentioned.
“Oh, and don’t drip blood on the carpet, please.” When I glance over my shoulder at the man, he adds a creepy smile. “It just got cleaned.”
My father simply throws his hand up in the air as we walk through the door.
“What is this place?” I mutter as I gaze up the two flights of stairs.
“A stairwell,” my father replies.
“No, I mean this hotel thing,” I say. “It’s not exactly legal, is it?”
“No,” my father replies. “But this hotel caters to anyone who brings money, and that’s all that matters.”
“So mobsters stay here?” I gulp. “Mobsters like—”
“They don’t ask questions, and neither do we,” my father interjects. “Now help me up.”
I toil and tug at him as he raises himself up the steps by the railing. He takes each step as slow as a snail. Even though it takes a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, we make it up.
When we finally get to the top, I breathe out ragged breaths and open the doors.
There’s a hallway in front of us with lots of rooms.
We skipped right past the check-in area, just as the man said.
My father whips out his card and checks the number. “Fifty-two.”
Down the hall and to the right. I put my arm under his shoulder to support him while we walk there. Only a few more steps…
When the door finally opens, I help him inside. But when I’ve put him down on a seat, and the door shuts behind us, I immediately exit the room again.
“Wait—”
I ignore my father’s voice and peek through the hallways until I find what I’m looking for. The cleaning lady’s cart and the bag filled with clothes destined for the cleaners.
When I’m sure no one is around, I rummage through the bag and fish out a white shirt that’s not too dirty, along with a pair of fancy suit trousers. Nothing I’d normally ever wear, but perfect to blend in.
I blow out a sigh.
I promise to bring these back once I get to safety.
Then I head back into the room and shut the door.
My father stares at me and the clothes in my hands. “What the hell are you up to?”
I don’t respond as I lock myself in the bathroom and look at the woman in the mirror. At her bloodied fingertips and stained purple dress.
I tear off the dress, ripping it at the seams until all that remains are the pieces on the floor. I wash my face and my hands under the sink, watching the blood slowly disappear down the drain. But no amount of rubbing can get rid of this smudge darkening my heart.
I clean myself off and quickly put on the clothes I stole. They don’t smell that bad. Anything is better than that dress bought with lives.
When I’m ready, I exit the bathroom and stand there for a moment while my father glares at me.
“Just a change of clothes? That’s it?” he asks. “Where did you get them?”
“I stole them,” I say. “But I’ll bring them back once we’re in a safer space, I promise.”
He simply makes ahmpfsound, and I recognize it from when he always used to berate me. But now, my father’s judgment is the least of my worries.
