Chapter 5: Exit Wounds

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and headed for the hallway, heart thumping so hard it echoed in my ears. The hallway reeked of old bleach and something sour, and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. The creaky floors sounded like gunshots with every step. The only small blessing was that the guy seemed busy in the bathroom, buying me a precious minute.

Confronting a killer isn’t something they teach you in small business seminars. I couldn’t just barge in and demand he leave. I needed a believable excuse.

Thank God there were no other guests that night. I knocked, trying to sound urgent but not panicked. I heard movement inside, then saw the peephole darken. He was checking me out, sizing me up.

"Who is it?" he growled, voice lower than before.

"It’s me, the owner," I said, forcing a nervous chuckle. "Sorry to bother you, man, but I just got word the cops are about to sweep this street. You know how it is with motels like ours—always a target."

A pause, then the door opened a crack, chain still on. The guy stood there in nothing but a towel, mask off. His face was plain, forgettable—almost normal, except for the coldness in his eyes. I kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to remember anything more than I had to.

I played my part, voice quivering. "I’m really sorry, dude. You and your girl don’t have IDs. If the cops show up, it’s trouble for both of us. I can’t risk it."

He stared, calculating. I held out his money, palms up. "Here, man. And here’s some extra for a cab. They’re coming any minute, I swear."

His eyes flicked from me to the cash, and for a second I thought he’d lunge. The silence was unbearable. Sweat trickled down my back, and I fought to keep from fidgeting. I was sure he could hear my heart beating through the door.

Finally, he relented. "Fine. I’ll go. She stays. Don’t touch her. I’ll be back."

He snatched the bills and slammed the door. I all but ran back to the front desk, my legs wobbly as wet noodles. My only goal now was to get him off the property before anything worse happened. If he wanted to leave the body, that was a headache for another hour.

A few minutes later, he left, all business—mask back on, duffel slung over his shoulder. Before stepping out, he grabbed one of my business cards from the counter.

"Is this your number?"

"Yeah," I croaked.

"Alright, I’ll contact you later."

After the killer left, I stared at the empty parking lot, half-expecting his shadow to reappear. Every car that passed made me flinch. Only after he vanished into the night did I let myself collapse back into my battered chair. I lit a shaky cigarette, staring at the security monitors as if they could offer reassurance. The worst was over, I told myself.

But the girl’s body was still in the room upstairs. My mind raced, trying to figure out my next move. Call the cops now? Maybe. With the body untouched, maybe the police wouldn’t search too hard, and I could pass it off as a stroke of luck. Say I saw the news and tricked the guy into leaving. That’d be the smart play.

But what if the cops didn’t catch him? What if he came back? Would he know I was the one who tipped them off? The thought of that man—his cold stare—creeping back in the dead of night, sent a shudder through me. The police can’t babysit me forever. Guys like him, they always find a way.

I decided the safest bet was to play dumb. Wait for him to come back and claim the body, or wait a day or two and "discover" the girl—then call the police. That way, I could play the part of the clueless motel owner. I hunkered down at the front desk, phone in hand, eyes never leaving the monitor.

I waited. And waited. All the way until the sun started rising, casting a harsh orange glare through the cracked blinds. It was shaping up to be one of those sweltering June days, and I suddenly realized a new problem—the forecast was calling for a record heatwave. A dead body in a small motel? In the summer? The stink would give the whole game away.

Should I call the cops now? But was it too soon? The timing didn’t feel right. "Goddammit!" I hissed, squeezing my phone so hard the case creaked.

Maybe I’d made it out. Maybe he’d just vanish, and I could go back to pretending I was just another sleazy motel owner. But the silence felt loaded, like the whole building was holding its breath.

That’s when my phone buzzed again—a new message. I glanced at the screen, and the words I saw made my heart drop to the floor. The message was from an unknown number: “You shouldn’t have interfered.”