Yikes. Who says that? And… “What’s the matter with you? I am not here for…” My voice fades. I can’t tell her the real reason I’m here. I can’t drag her into this.
I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. “Yes, I admit it. I was poking the paid pussy. And I’m very sorry.” I shrug. “I guess I just really, really needed some womanly affection.” I feel like a moron. Also, I need to make it sound more believable. That was pretty damned pathetic. “I needed to pound one out. Hard. Like a man does.” That came out even worse.
Lara narrows her eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. Other than that thing you just caught me doing.”
“Nuh-uh. You’re lying. I can tell.”
Why does she have to be so smart? It’s annoying. “Believe me or don’t believe me. But I—”
My cell rings, and I frantically dig it out of my jeans pocket, hoping it’s Child Services. “Hello?”
It’s a Ms. Blackwell, Fia’s caseworker, confirming that she has Fia and is on the way to my apartment. I confirm my address and agree to meet her in twenty minutes.
I end the call and look at Lara. “I have to go. They’re dropping off Fia.”
“You do what you have to.” Lara hops out and beelines toward the front side of the motel.
I exit my truck. “Dammit, Lara! Where are you going? I need to get back to my place.”
“I’m going to find out what you’re hiding,” she yells.
I scrub my face with my hands and groan. I have to leave, but I can’t let Lara get mixed up in this.
I chase after Lara, who’s now disappeared around the corner. I swear I’m going to throttle her for this.
I turn the corner, and oomph! I collide with some guy’s shoulders, and it nearly sends me to the ground.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, buddy,” the guy says. He’s dressed in a black Members Only jacket and black slacks. His dark brown hair is covered with a baseball cap.
“Why don’t you…” Oh fuck. I know his face. It’s Tony. “Why don’t you have a nice night, sir. And very sorry about that.” I keep walking, my heart racing a million miles a second.
No, no, no. If he’s here, and he’s leaving…
I bolt toward Marli’s room just in time to see Lara running away from it, in the opposite direction. I can’t see Lara’s face, but I can tell something’s wrong.
“Lara!” I call out but keep heading to Marli’s room. When I get to the doorway, all I see is her body lying on the floor, a ladle sticking out of her bloody mouth.
What the…? She’s dead.
Every muscle in my body floods with anger. And fear. And more anger. Tony Rigatoni did this.
I stand there, unable to think straight or wrap my head around what I’m looking at. I was just with Marli. I just talked to her.
She can’t be dead. I glance inside the room again. Yep. She’s dead. I don’t know if I should call the police or go to the manager or what. Lara will know what to do.
I turn my head in the direction she went, only to see Lara is peeling rubber out of there.
“Wait!” I dig my cell from my pocket and call her, but my call goes to voicemail.
If she saw what I saw, Lara is upset. She probably needs me. But I have to get home for Fia. I have to put the baby first.
I’m going to be sick. When I get back to my place, I’m a sweaty, shaky mess. I grew up in a rough neighborhood, so that wasn’t my first time seeing a dead body, but I’ve never witnessed anyone murdered in that particular way. Also, there’s the fact that I knew her. She was Fia’s mother.
This is a nightmare. I grip my steering wheel, thinking about how it all happened so fast. If I’d left Marli’s motel room a minute later, I probably would have been right beside her with an ice cream scoop or a pair of salad tongs shoved in my face.
What am I going to tell Fia if she asks about her mother? It’s actually a moot point, because Marli was right; I need to make sure Fia is never discovered. If she fell into Tony’s hands, God only knows what he’d do the first time she upsets him. Fia can never know about Tony or Marli either.
I try Lara’s cell again and leave her a voicemail warning her not to call the police. Then I text her: If you say anything, you’ll regret it. So don’t.
I park my truck and go around to the back stairwell of my apartment complex. There are still two vulture-mobiles parked out front, so I’m prepared to fight them off.
I jog up the stairs and am greeted by an aggressive reporter with an iPhone she points in my face. “Why are you sneaking out of your apartment, Mr. Norland? What do you have to hide? How many babies have you trafficked?”