25

25

AFTER ALMOST AN entire week of sleeping through never-ending sex nightmares, I’ve more or less gotten used to waking up with every muscle in my body knotted and barely even register the tension coursing through every limb. I pull myself out of bed and cross to the window to look outside, fully expecting to see another caravan of Red and Blue cars clogging up the hotel parking lot. But, aside from the normal cars of the guests and staff of the hotel, the lot is empty. Not even one cop car in sight.

You’d think that would ease my concerns, but instead it heightens them. After consistently killing someone each night for the last three nights (four if you count Craig the Waiter—which I’m still not entirely convinced we should be), why would Nick—or whichever of his minions is currently stalking The Hotel Dickson—suddenly take a break? I try to tell myself maybe it’s just the body hasn’t been found yet, but I can’t believe it would be that easy.

By this point, the spa receptionis