Rapt in the power of music, Lito never noticed the black Cadillac following him.
At the top of his lungs, he sang with the male chorus:
31
HOPE LAY AWAKE IN THE KING-SIZED BED in the hotel room so graciously purchased on the handsome stranger’s dime. She stared at the rectangular glow on the wall now changing from orange to bright yellow as the rising sun cast its light through the window.
Wrapped in the sheets, she was completely naked, wishing she could simply enjoy how clean everything felt, how nice the rose-scented pillows smelled, how good her skin felt after her first shower in a week—all thanks to that generous man who’d saved her.
Had this been another time, another life, she might well have thought more about the nice man’s looks: beautiful eyes, chiseled features, and oh yes, very strong arms.
But no.
She allowed no such thoughts, not since the final nail was hammered into the coffin of her soul several years ago. Never again would she allow herself to desire anything other than to escape the miserable life in which anyone she’d ever allowed into her heart had either beaten, molested, or otherwise betrayed her.
The one drop of rain in that barren desert had been taken away and along with it, Hope’s will to live. Being rescued by a Clive Owen-ish hero couldn’t change that—he’d only prolonged her pain.
She sighed, reached for the phone, and dialed.
“Good morning, front desk. How can I help you?”
“Couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“I’m sorry, Ms… Matheson. Is there anything we can get you?”
Clive had said to put everything on his credit card.
“I need a bottle of Ambien. They’re sleeping pills.”
“Of course. We can call in a prescription for you and have them delivered.”
Prescription. Right. The last doctor she saw refused to give her any because he thought—he knew she was suicidal. Which was why she’d not been to any kind of doctor, even though as a homeless person for nearly a year she probably could have gotten to one through public assistance. Too complicated, too much trouble.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Is there anything else, perhaps?”
“It’s all right. I’ll try something else.” Which was to say, another method of ending it all. She hung up, hugged the pillow to her chest, and curled into a fetal position. Whoever said “it’s all in your head” had no idea what it meant to be truly depressed. The physical pain radiated from her gut all through her chest—the last place it went was her head, though that hurt like the devil too.
She wanted to keep it from getting too messy in this fancy hotel room, what with its thick white carpet, cherrywood furniture, and pristine marble bathroom. But she’d have to go the gruesome route of mirror shards and crimson bathwater.
She’d cut herself before, so she wasn’t worried about how it would feel. It was the thought of all that blood flowing from her wrists into the tub that made her stomach clench. She had to do it, though. And no point putting it off.
Hope climbed out of the bed, put on the soft white robe she’d try to keep away from any of the blood—no sense in ruining it—and looked for something heavy enough to smash the mirror.
An odd euphoria rushed through her, lightening her mood, making her heart beat rapidly.
It’s almost over.
Maybe that’s why she seemed almost excited.
And in the privacy of her locked hotel room, she would not fail again.
There.
On the polished desk sat an antiqued brass paperweight that looked really heavy. She lifted it: it was. This would do nicely.
She wound back her arm to hurl it at the mirror—
A knock on the door.
The paperweight slipped out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud.
“Room service,” a woman’s voice called out. But she hadn’t—
She opened the door to find a young lady standing there with a white paper bag in her hand.
“For you, ma’am.” And she left.
It was from a pharmacy. On closer inspection she saw that it was in fact a prescription for Hope Matheson. She tore the bag open and found a large orange vial with a safety cap, on its label her name printed along with the name of the drug Zolpidem Tartrate (Ambien) 10 mg and the instructions: Take as needed.
As needed?
There must have been at least sixty pills in the bottle.
Had the front desk managed to find a way to get it for her after all?
Perhaps someone was looking out for her.
Someone who understood her pain.
32
LENA KNEW WHAT SHE’D DONE wasn’t appropriate. Helping Nick complete his assignment didn’t represent the best method of ascertaining his capabilities or loyalty.
Having shed the appearance of the hotel’s housekeeping staff, she strode out into the lobby turning more than a few heads, men and women alike. The whiny little human had been the low-hanging fruit among Nick’s three assignments, the one he was close to completing without her delivering the pills. But she wasn’t going to take chances with so little time before the Cabrillo Stadium event, just days away. Anyway, Morloch need never know about her helping Nick. As long as the goal was reached, what did it matter how?
Evaporating from physical perception as she walked through the exit and onto the sidewalk, Lena paused. Something didn’t feel right.
She’d been watching Nick carefully since he brought Hope to the Broadmore. Though he denied it vehemently, he fancied this mortal. That was why he’d hesitated to help her meet her demise. And of course he lied about it. Lena expected nothing less from angels of his stock. They were not above subterfuge, something Lena had good reason to know all too well. That made him the perfect candidate.
With one leap, she launched herself onto the hotel’s roof. It was only a few stories, nothing like a New York skyscraper but a fine spot for perching invisibly while she thought about angels who lied, angels who got entangled with humans…
This had to be a passing thing for Nick. He couldn’t be developing genuine feelings for a human. How could a superior being see humans as anything but barely sentient mammals? Cruel, filthy animals.
A sharp pain burrowed into the center of Lena’s ribs. Odd, she rarely felt pain. And it brought an irritating wetness to her eyes.
“Oh, my Lord, Punkin’!” George Walker stands at the open door and drops his lunch pail. He rushes over to his nine-year-old daughter, who sits alone at the kitchen table, dabbing cuts on her bruised face with a white towel stained with blood. “What in the world happened to you?”
“Nothing, Daddy. I… I just fell down, is all.” She tries to smile but winces in pain. She’s never been a good liar anyway.
“Where’s your momma?”
She points at the closed bedroom door.
George takes the towel, rinses it, wrings it, then gets down on one knee to gently press it against a swollen bump above her eye.
“You so brave, Punkin’. I’m proud of you. Now you can tell me the truth.” Tears stand in his eyes as he struggles to be strong for her. “It was them boys from school, wasn’t it?”