I swallow. I’m not sure I understand.
“We just need to blend in as best we can so no one looks at us. Almost home.” His mouth twitches at the corner and then he lets go of my chin and he moves to the bed. He grabs a pair of flip flops from the floor. I didn’t even see them there. He walks back to me and then crouches in front of me. “Foot,” he snaps. I lift my left foot and I have to grab for his shoulder so that I don’t fall over. He slips the flip flop onto my foot, and then I quickly slip my right foot into the one he left on the floor, before he can pick it up. I let go of his shoulder and move away from him, my pulse racing from having to touch him. I don’t think there will ever come a time that I’ll trust another human being or feel safe again.
He rises to his full length and then he starts to strip the blankets and sheets from both beds. I watch him wipe the room – everywhere and with such precision it’s scary. I don’t move as he moves through the room and bathroom three times. Shit, this guy is meticulous. He’s making sure we leave nothing behind. “Let’s go,” he snaps once he’s happy with the job he’s done cleaning the room.
I rush out of the room and straight into the cold air. It’s still dark out. I don’t even know what time it is. I wrap my arms around me for some extra warmth.
When Damian’s arm falls over my shoulders, I flinch. He pulls me into his side and then starts to walk. I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on our feet until he pulls at me to stop.
The car is silver, a plain looking sedan type. Everything is plain but him. He nudges me into the passenger seat and I keep my eyes on my feet. I feel the car give under his weight and listen to the motor purr to life.
His movement is sudden as his hand comes at me and I press into the door, turning my face away from him and bracing myself for the impact.
When he places his hand on the headrest, embarrassment and relief courses through me. Our eyes meet for a moment before he looks behind him to back out of the parking. I shoot him an apologetic glance, one he doesn’t even see.
We drive in silence with only the buzzing of other cars and the hum of the wheels breaking the stillness of the night.
We don’t stop once and I don’t look up.
I think a lot.
I remember for the first time, and I don’t have tears to ease the flashes away.
It’s as if the motel was a cocoon of safety from my memories and now that we’ve left, I’m assaulted from all sides.
I remember the smell of the car when Damian put me on the back seat a few days ago. I remember the blankets he covered me with and that he never took them off, not until I woke up in the motel room.
I don’t know how long I was out for the first time, or the second, or until I finally woke up that day.
But I also remember the look in his eyes when he killed them all.
He killed people.
“They’re all dead. You killed them all.” My voice sounds as neutral as his has been the past few days.
“Yes,” he says. It’s all he says.
“Why?” I don’t know why I’m asking. A part of me wants them dead. Another part of me doesn’t want to think of them, doesn’t want to care whether they are breathing or not.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asks. I feel his eyes on me for a moment before he looks back at the road ahead. I look at his hand holding the steering wheel, the other is resting on his thigh. His whole demeanor is casual. Everything - but his eyes.
“Yes,” I whisper. I do want to know why he does what he does, and what exactly he does for a living.
“I do various things, mostly I track and clean,” he starts. I keep my eyes on his hand, the one on his leg. He doesn’t make a fist; it stays relaxed as if this is just another conversation for him. “People hire me if someone goes missing and I find them before things get ugly. I make sure to remove any evidence that they were ever there, and I take out those responsible so they don’t come back. It’s what I’m good at.”
My eyes glue themselves to his hand. It’s the hand that pulled the trigger. That hand has killed. How many people has he killed? Does he feel remorse? Is he a serial killer and as soon as I let my guard down, will he kill me too?
“Who do you think deserves to die, an innocent child or a drug lord?” he asks me all of a sudden, yanking me from my panicked thoughts.
“Of course not the child,” I mumble from under my breath, aggravated that he even asked me such a thing.
“You or Henry?”
He knows Henry? The information shocks through my body and I clasp my arms tighter around myself. I shake my head not even answering him.
“You or Attridge?” he asks again.
I start to hunch over and wish he would stop now. I don’t want to hear their names. I keep shaking my head.
“You or Steven?”