Chapter 3: Room 104 – August, Olympia, Washington

Two months. A sarcastic chuckle rumbled from her throat unexpectedly.

That’s how long she’d called this fleabag motel “home.” Her laugh turned quietly bitter. The most she’d seen of Olympia was the hard road that brought her here, the North Star truck stop, and this sad, sad motel. Everything else was just a green and gray blur at the edge.

Elle Rowan peeked up from behind the cleaning cart, eyes darting right, then left, then back the way she’d come before stopping at Room 104. The cart let out a horrible screech as it halted, announcing her presence to every possible denizen in the vicinity. Elle winced. She’d have to get it fixed by tomorrow. The sound grated on her last nerve, making her feel self-conscious. Visible. She didn’t like feeling seen.

Fucking cart.

Thankfully, the Rainier Motel seemed deserted this morning. The ever-present damp darkened the concrete, scenting the early day with cedar, pine, and rain-soaked earth. Even in August, the sky hung low and gray, chasing most customers back to their beds or off to their next stop. The dense evergreen forest pressed close like it was trying to swallow the motel whole. It matched Elle’s mood perfectly. She wanted to disappear into the surroundings. To be invisible.

She kept her head down, shoulders curled inward, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wore a faded housekeeping smock that had seen better years, with her ever-present green hoodie tied at her waist. It was more than just clothing now. It was like a security blanket and armor all in one. She had stolen it from the local thrift during her escape from Mike — grabbed in a blind panic to hide her hair when he’d tracked her to Kentucky. She still carried the price tag in her wallet, a crumpled reminder that she owed someone for it. She just didn’t have the money saved yet to pay them back. Every time she pulled the hood up, she felt both guilty and safe.

(knock three times) Fumbling with her master key, her fingers stiff and clumsy, she mumbled “Housekeeping,” and opened the door. She poked her head in quickly, looking for guests. Or something else. She’d had a few surprises before and liked to be cautious. Nothing unusual. She grabbed the bright yellow doorstop from her cart and propped the door open wide.

She didn’t like being locked inside. Not since Mike. The idea of anything being between her and an exit made her chest tight. Her heart would slam against her ribs. Her breath would quicken or stop. The world would spin. Only in her own room did she feel somewhat ‘safe’.

There were a lot of things that had changed since Mike. Elle shook her head and got to work.

The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, mildew, and the sharp chemical lemon scent of industrial cleaner. She turned on all the lights, chasing every shadow from the corners. No surprises. No guests jumping from a closet, or slinking from the bathroom in just a towel, sly grin on their face. For ten long seconds she just stood there, breathing heavily, listening, constantly aware of the open doorway behind her.

She stripped the bed with practiced, mechanical movements, careful not to aggravate her wounded ankle. The top sheet had been twisted at the foot of the mattress, proof of a restless sleeper. Elle blinked and found herself staring blankly at the wrinkled fabric in her hands. She tried to focus on the work, on someone else’s mess instead of the slow, terrifying unraveling of her own mind.

Every few seconds her eyes flicked back toward the open doorway. The sound of a car door slamming in the parking lot made her flinch hard enough to nearly drop the pillow she was changing. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she waited, listening for footsteps headed her way. When no footsteps approached, she forced herself to keep cleaning.

“You’re fine. You are safe,” she whispered to herself. “No one knows you are here. No one is coming.”

The words had barely left her mouth when the memory slammed into her. Mike wasn’t the only reason she was running.

One moment, she was in the shabby motel room. Her body frozen. Her hands gripping her head. Fear overtaking her. She fell to the floor, her knees curled up tight. And then, she was back on the cold Kentucky Winter concrete.

Six months ago.

A scheduled stop for the bus she had jumped on at the last second. Grabbing a quick coffee. Maybe a few snacks if her coins would stretch. Elle hadn’t had much time to pack — just a few necessities that would fit into her backpack in five frantic minutes before she ran.

Still jumpy, she kept scanning for Mike, huddling into the other passengers as much as possible. She just might be far enough ahead of him to escape. The dark of just after midnight hid many sins. She headed toward the restrooms.

That’s when she saw him.

He was crouched on the sidewalk near the vending machines, shaking badly, arms wrapped around his knees. He looked sick. Maybe homeless. Maybe dying. She hesitated. Not her business. Not her problem. Her hesitation cost her. The other women moved on, leaving her behind. She was alone. For the first time since leaving Chicago. Alone with a strange man.

Who suddenly looked up at her with feverish eyes, clammy skin, and something wild and desperate burning behind them.

“Are… are you okay?” She couldn’t help herself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She knew better than to talk to strangers. Don’t look. Don’t be seen. Don’t upset Mike.

His eyes were wrong. Mike-wrong, she thought too late. Too bright. Too feral.

And then he lunged.

Elle fell backward, scrambling across the rough pavement, trying desperately to get away. “No, no, no.” Pain bit into her hands as rocks scraped her palms. She barely registered the feeling. Silently pleading, no, no, no again. The stranger was too fast. Too big. Too strong. His hand shot out and locked around her ankle with terrifying, deliberate strength. Nothing more than a shiny stone that caught his eye. He was smiling. What the fuck? Sobbing, she kicked and twisted, but his grip was a vice.

Then came the pain.

He bit her. Like he was testing the edge of a coin. She sobbed again. Kicked again. Pushed with one foot against his face, trying to get him to release her other foot. She screamed as white-hot agony shot up her leg when he sank his teeth in deeper. He didn’t just bite her — he held on, growling one word against her skin like a curse.

“Mine.” Like a dog with a bone. A delicious, meaty, fresh-from-the-plate steak bone.

Pure terror flooded her. Her fingers scrabbled across the ground until they closed around a jagged chunk of asphalt. She swung it with every bit of strength she had left. It landed with a sickening wet crunch against the side of his head.

The man grunted. His eyes rolled back, his jaw finally released her ankle, and he slumped sideways onto the pavement. Just another homeless person taking a nap instead of the terrifyingly feral creature who had been about to eat her for dinner.

A loud, harsh caw from a crow right outside the window shattered the flashback.

Elle jerked violently, falling back into herself. She was crouched in the doorway of Room 104, breathing hard. Thank God no one had seen her. Her boss hadn’t seen her. Her hand moved unconsciously to rub her ankle, the flesh still tender, healing poorly.

Some days it burned like it was freshly bitten. Other days it felt like ants crawling under her skin, slowly spreading up her leg. She’d found a small urgent care clinic along the bus route off I-75. No paper trail. High transient population. Paid cash. Gave a fake name. The bored nurse practitioner cleaned the bite, gave her antibiotics, and told her to watch for infection. At least it wasn’t blood poisoning. No questions. No records. Just another drifter with a nasty wound.

She forced herself to stand, legs shaking. Grabbing the doorstop, she stared at it for a long moment, then put it away on the cart.

Safe. She was safe.

She pulled the green hoodie from around her waist and covered herself. She was too cold.

“Safe. I’m safe.”

It was a lie. But she kept repeating it. It was starting to feel like truth. After a moment she worked up the energy to move, then with a loud squeal of the wheels, pushed the cart toward the next room. She kept repeating the safe mantra in her head while her eyes darted from spot to spot, looking for the thing that was out of place. The thing that would be Mike or The Stranger or The Boss. Wincing, she limped down the covered walkway. She needed to get off her feet. She needed to get away from the motel for a while. It was bringing up too many bad memories.

Her mind was already drifting toward her favorite diner — toward the quiet corner booth where Nancy would pour her coffee in that steady, gentle way of hers and offer the occasional maternal pat on the shoulder without asking too many questions. Where she could feel human for a moment.