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How did I know who Danny DeVito was? He was an actor. I knew that, somehow. My mind lingered on the name for a moment, accompanied by an image in my mind. I let it drop.
“You expect me to sell you the shoes off my feet for a pittance?” I shook my head and took a step toward the exit.
“Stop. Haggle with me. We’re doing business here.”
The wet slurping sound of him licking his lips sent a shiver up my neck.
“You’re insulting me,” I said. “I’m leaving. That’s what we’re doing.”
I took another step.
“Why’s someone like you in a place like this anyway?” he asked.
Someone like me?
“You smell like old money. My best guess is you got yourself a drug problem. Borrowed from the wrong guy or you’re looking for a fix. Something you can’t ask daddy for.”
My jaw clenched hard, too hard. A bitter taste tinged my tongue. Why did his words stir something dark and feral within me? I shouldn’t have come here.
I took another step toward the door. “Good day.”
“I can do one fifty. Best offer.”
“Two fifty,” I snapped. “And a replacement for my shoes.”
“Done.” He grinned a wide grin, suggesting this was quite the deal for him.
That was all well and good. It was a good deal for me, too, as I needed money to survive and I needed to get the hell out of here away from him.
He hurried into the back room, returned with a stack of cash and a pair of thin yellow flip flops.
I handed over my belongings, put on the plastic shoes, and flip flopped my way back into the summer heat. The yellow plastic pinched unpleasantly at the tender skin between my toes.
I should have been keeping a mental list of the things I’d learned about myself so far. That mistake could be righted now. My name was Tristan. I was embroiled in some sort of espionage. I was some sort of blue collar worker with a vest. I had fancy clothes and a short temper. I had a troll USB drive and the key to an old car with a value that didn’t match my attire, but did match my occupation. I knew who Danny DeVito was. I liked bagels and cream cheese, but not as much as sausage. I didn’t like flip flops.
That was significantly more information than I’d known when I woke up in the hospital. I chose to focus on this small victory and ignore the gaping sinkhole in my memory as I continued on my way. If I allowed myself to break down any further than I already had, I’d never even the score with Morgan, or figure out who I was.
I stopped by a thrift shop and picked up a few sets of clothing that were close enough to my size, then finally figured out what it was I could do to recompense Morgan.
She couldn’t survive on bagels alone.
Pleased with my plan, I went to a local market to pick out some food. I did not get the same familiar sense in the market as I had in the pawn shop. That was fine. I certainly had eaten food before, so something in this storehadto be familiar.
I followed my instincts and picked up a few things that I recognized. And even a bag of cat food for the weasel.
Then I returned to the hotel, and got to work.
SIXTEEN
MORGAN
I woke in a large, unfamiliar bed to the smell of boiling pasta. This was surprising given none of my roommates actually cooked in our shared apartment, which was…definitely not where I was.
It took me a moment of absorbing my surroundings to remember that I was no longer stuck in that dump, but was instead staying in my brand spanking new cozy hotel room.
“Change” is another word for opportunity. Take-charge boss ladies greeted opportunity with open arms. That’s exactly what I was going to do.
I climbed out of bed, righted my twisted shirt, and rubbed the slobber from my cheek.
