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I tug at the towel. “I’m not exactly dressed for breakfast.”
His eyes flick down my body before returning to my face.
“I asked if you needed anything else from your room,” he snaps. “I expect accurate answers in the future.”
He goes back inside, and I hear the wardrobe opening.
I remain where I am, afraid to look in there.
“Is Oswald dead?” I ask when he reappears.
“Is that his name?” he asks. “His parents must have hated him.”
“Answer the question. Is he dead? Did you kill him?”
“He’s alive. Why? Do I look like a killer to you?”
“Honestly, yes.”
He raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”
“You beat a man unconscious without breaking a sweat. You’re perfectly calm about all this. I just find it a little... unnerving.”
“You’re an observant woman. I like that. Would you like me to kill him?”
“God, no. Why would you even say that?”
“He tried to break into your room. You are scared of him. Why wouldn’t you want him dead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not a murderer.”
“What do you want then?”
“I just want him to leave me alone.”
“I suspect he won’t bother you again. Not after the short discussion I had with him. I do not intend to be late for breakfast, and I am not leaving you alone here. He might wake up. Two minutes to get changed, or you come in that towel.”
He holds my clothes out toward me. I notice he’s put the bra and panties on top of the pile, a smirk on his face as he glances down at them. I snatch my things from him and march to his bathroom, dropping the towel only when I’m sure the door’s closed and locked.
It’s as trashed in here as the bedroom. The cabinet above the sink is open, the back of it ripped to expose the plaster behind. The side of the bath is off, and the shower curtain looks like a beached jellyfish on the tiles, water dribbling from it. All this chaos, yet last night, I didn’t hear a thing.
I dress quickly, slipping into my sneakers while sitting on the toilet. I check my hair in the mirror before heading out. There’s a brush by the faucet still wrapped in cellophane. I open it up and untangle the still-damp knots, doing my best to make myself halfway presentable.
When I walk out, he’s tapping his watch. “If we’re late, I will blame you,” he says, striding off down the corridor toward the elevator. “I cannot abide lateness in my employees.”
“I’m sorry. I went as quick as I could.”
I follow him, feeling my heart sinking.
I don’t want him to be angry. I want to apologize more. I force myself not to.I don’t have to say sorry to him for anything. I don’t even know him. He’s not my boss or my psychotic ex.
Why do I care what he thinks of me? Am I that ground down?
“What’s your name?” he asks while we wait for the elevator to arrive.
“Bex.”
“Got a last name, Bex?”
