Page 3 of Razor
I parked near the office, keeping the car running with Dante inside while I checked in.The night air felt heavy with moisture and the smell of garbage from an overflowing dumpster nearby.The office door jangled as I pushed it open, revealing a small room with faded wallpaper and a plastic barrier separating customers from the desk clerk.
A man sat behind the barrier, his face illuminated by the glow of a small television showing what looked like a cooking show.He didn't look up.
"Need a room," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glanced up, his expression as blank as a mannequin's."Single or double?"
"Double."I placed cash on the small metal tray—the exact amount Pretty Boy had told me to bring.
"Name?"
"Jane Wilson."The fake name felt foreign on my tongue.
He pushed a registration card toward me.I filled it out with shaky handwriting, making up an address in another state.
"ID?"
My heart skipped.Pretty Boy hadn't mentioned this."I...left it in the car."
The clerk stared at me for a long moment.His eyes flicked to the cash, then back to my face."Room 17.End of the row.Check-out's at eleven."He slid a key attached to a large plastic fob across the counter.
"Thanks."I grabbed it and hurried out, relief washing over me.
Back in the car, I drove to the far end of the single-story building.Room 17 was in the corner, partially hidden by an overgrown hedge.Perfect.I parked directly in front of it, positioning the car for a quick exit if needed.
Dante was fully awake now, looking around with curious eyes."Is this where we're staying, Mommy?"
"Just for tonight, sweetie."I forced a smile."It's part of our adventure."
I gathered our bag and helped Dante from his car seat.His small hand found mine as we approached the door, his trust in me absolute and terrifying.What if I'd made the wrong choice?What if Pretty Boy's plan failed?
The key stuck in the lock, requiring a jiggle and firm push before the door swung open with a groan.The smell hit me first—stale cigarettes layered over mildew and damp carpet.A single lamp cast sickly yellow light over a room that might have been clean once, years ago.
Two double beds with faded floral spreads dominated the space.The carpet, once beige, now bore countless stains in various shapes and sizes.Peeling wallpaper curled at the seams, revealing patches of mold in the corners.The bathroom doorway showed a glimpse of cracked tiles and a rust-stained sink.
"It smells funny," Dante whispered, pressing closer to my leg.
"I know, baby."I set our bag down and quickly checked the bathroom and closet—habit from living with Tyler's unpredictable rages."We'll open a window."
The window stuck, but I managed to force it open an inch.Cool air seeped in, diluting the stale smell slightly.I turned down one of the beds, checking for bugs or worse.The sheets, at least, seemed clean enough.
"Come on, let's get you back to sleep."I helped Dante onto the bed, removing only his shoes before tucking him under the thin blanket.
"Will Daddy find us here?"he asked, his small voice thick with sleep yet tinged with fear that no four-year-old should know.
My heart cracked."No, sweetie.He won't find us."I stroked his hair, humming softly until his eyes closed and his breathing deepened.
I sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion crashing over me in waves.The adrenaline that had carried me through the escape was fading, leaving my limbs heavy and my mind foggy.But I couldn't rest.Not yet.
Pretty Boy had promised help would come.I just had to keep us safe until then.I just had to stay awake.
I tucked the thin, scratchy blanket around Dante's sleeping form, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.In sleep, his face lost the wariness that had started creeping in over the past months—the way his eyes would track Tyler's movements across a room, how he'd flinch at sudden noises.My baby was learning to be afraid, and it killed me inside.But not anymore.I'd rather live in a hundred seedy motels than watch my son turn into a shadow of himself.
The burner phone Pretty Boy had given me last week felt foreign in my hand—a cheap flip phone, nothing like my sleek smartphone that I'd left behind because Tyler had installed tracking apps on it.My fingers trembled as I typed out the pre-arranged message:
"Mockingbird has landed.Room 17."
Simple.Untraceable.I'd become a code name in my brother's elaborate escape plan.I hit send and held my breath, unsure if the message would even go through.The motel's location was deliberately remote, the signal bars flickering between one and none.
